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[czugwrite]

Owning Your Weird.

Published piece for The Yellow Co. Monthly Periodical

Three Creative Women Who Are Owning Their Weird. Beautifully.

Author’s Note: When I first set out to write this piece, ironically, I envisioned a narrow scope of the term “weird.” My archetypal American mind thought “Okay, weird means BIG, LOUD. Who’s really making a cultural splash? Who should readers be looking to for personal examples of massive, profound, rebellious metamorphic social or creative capitalization of their so-called  “weirdness?” I reached out to some individuals whose “weirdness” was amplified across bigger, broader platforms. And I was greeted with something unexpected: insecure disapproval and  harsh dismissal of the term “weird.”

I thought about this, and turned it over and over in my mind. And I realized something: There’s great humility in the ability to personally translate the descriptor “weird” into unique, valuable, or powerful.  I took a moment to step back and admire the openness, the humility, and the vulnerable personal journeys that I was welcomed into for this feature.  The willingness to consider what is “unique” about them to be, only for the sake of the story, described as “weird.”

The women who you’re about to meet flexed my understanding of what it means to own your “weird.” It’s a term that is wonderfully relative. No matter what our story, we all have an understanding about what it means to stand out, to not fit in, and to be unsure of what to do with that experience.

The women below elicit a quiet, organic, beautiful uniqueness not unlike your own, dear reader. Their “weirdness” falls into varying categories. Racial. Cultural. Physiological. Philosophical. While these external descriptors set these women apart, they all reflect a nearly identical human experience. Whether they realize it or not, their most beautiful triumph was not an acceptance from others, it was an acceptance of themselves;  an inner embrace, a celebration of their own uniqueness. It’s an experience everyone needs. Especially me.

And so, I’m endlessly grateful for the opportunity to introduce you to three women who own their weird.

Meet Roxanne, Satsuki, and Isabel.

 1. “My oddities are a gift -- I intend to treat them as such.” 

- Roxanne Fernania

Have you ever tried to be three places at once? Despite what you may think, it’s completely possible --  culturally speaking, that is.  

Freelance writer and founder of Golly Magazine, Roxanne Fernania lived the experience of a “third culture kid.” A “third culture” experience describes a multi-cultural environment, such as a household where parents raise their family amidst a culture that differs from their own. The parents identify with their home culture,  and the child identifies with the dominant culture of their surroundings, which then creates a third, middle-culture experience between the two cultures. While ultimately beautiful, a third culture experience can present many challenges, and certainly create the false idea of “weirdness.”  

Raised in Staten Island, New York  by parents who were Haitian immigrants,  Roxanne’s relationship to her “weirdness” stemmed from this third culture experience, not just as a child of immigrants, but as a child of black immigrants.  Although she grew up in a semi-diverse neighborhood, her family sent her to all-white Catholic school.

“As an American-born black girl with immigrant parents... I always felt a bit like a fish out of water. Add this to the fact that I was (and still am!) a quiet type, very much lost in my own thoughts, and you have an effective recipe for that familiar childhood feeling of not fitting in.”

As she got older, Roxanne became increasingly aware of her cultural and racial challenges. The reactions and comments from those around her were confusing, and, well, weird. She often withdrew into herself, or into a book.  Roxanne’s passion for reading and writing transcended the oddness she often felt; her creative drive too vibrant and voracious to be stunted by any insecurity or flimsy aspirations. And as it turns out, what is often mistook for shyness is instead a quiet display of skillful observation.  

“In my capacity as a writer, I’ve also learned that there’s value in my tendency to listen first and speak later.”

Sure enough, with a little time, talent, and encouragement from other creatives, Roxanne was able to turn her childhood solace of language arts into a dream job. A steady stint as an e-commerce copywriter for EBAY eventually led her to becoming a freelance writer and co-founding a print magazine called Golly.  She currently writes for several online publications and women’s periodicals.

“Over the years, I’ve managed to surround myself with a growing community of people who embrace, appreciate, and encourage my ever-evolving identity, which has made all the difference .”

Who could have predicted the incredible opportunities available to writers because of the internet? Between essays, creative writing, and copywriting, Roxanne supports herself full-time. Her concentrated experience with a diversity of cultures and colors has given her an understanding voice and bright humor that comes through in her work. She is able to speak to so many issues, stories, and struggles because of her “weirdness.” In a time when, more than ever, the real-life perspectives of a female person of color need to be heard, honored, and shared, Roxanne humbly and  beautifully steps into these moments.

“If weirdness is just another word for that which is unusual or unique, I think [everyone] benefits from our quirks and personal charms.”

2. “My weirdness allows me to be the authentic self that I am meant to be.” 

- Satsuki Shibuya

Hearing. Sight. Smell. Taste. Touch. Most everyone is equipped with five senses, each with varying degrees of sensitivity. But what if you had a few more than just five?

Satsuki Shibuya is a watercolor artist with a physiological sensitivity called “synesthesia.” Synesthesia is a sensory phenomenon where certain senses can cross, and produce an additional, heightened experience. For example, Satsuki can “see” sound, “hear” color, and has a highly developed sensitivity to personal energies, also known as auras.

“[Growing up,] when I would share with other people what I noticed from my surroundings, no one around me understood what I was sensing, or the depth to which I sensed it. It always made me feel like an outcast, or like I couldn’t relate to anybody.”

It was many long years before Satsuki was able to name her unique sensory experience. She was aware of her sensitivity, but not fully sure of how to manage it in a healthy way. While always interested in working in a creative field, it’s only very recently that she has been living as a full-time “intuitive” watercolor artist.

In 2011, Satsuki experienced a  full year of severe, debilitating unknown illness. She saw doctor after doctor, with little to no reprieve. After a year of not working, she received a very clear prompting to paint. And paint she did. When she eventually got around to playing with watercolors, she finally discovered the perfect medium for channelling her unique sensory experiences.

“Weirdness has changed to uniqueness. I can harness that part of myself now, and I’m not afraid to incorporate my uniqueness into my art or creative mediums.”

The right moment with the right person at the right time. Satsuki’s watercolor paintings and the clean, peaceful feeling they evoked was magnetic. Her work became featured and sought after in the art and fashion communities and businesses. The abstract sensations she encounters, intuitively or physiologically, lead her to the patterns and textures which are now so widely beloved. With high-profile clients such as POKETO and Urban Outfitters, her work has reached all around the globe, from Canada to Japan, and many places in between.

As celebrated as Satsuki’s work has now become, however, her artistic experiences of synesthesia can still produce mixed responses from others. Her art has finally given her a much-needed medium to express her powerful sensitivities  to sound, color, and smell, and a way to celebrate this unique ability in a healthy way. But she can still feel glimmers of the “weird” label from her past.

“I definitely feel that my “weirdness” is a strong suit when I’m in my element, when I’m being creative. But when I’m in an environment where people tend to value sameness, my normal way that I see things or my “quirks” can make others uncomfortable.”

Weird versus Unique.  One isolates, one celebrates. But Satsuki is passionate about gently guiding others through their difficulty to understand. With her, it’s often her unique abilities she must explain, however, she’s very aware of similar gaps in understanding  that can divide people. Whether in her art or her personal interactions, she very much wants to bridge that divide  in humanity which oscillates between fearful ignorance and warm understanding. And her peaceful, watery displays of sound and color are a magical contribution to that worldwide effort.

“Weirdness is one of my strengths, and I’m thankful for it now.”

3. “I remember thinking, ‘Well, whatever I’m doing clearly isn’t working so I’m just going to stop trying [to fit in] and just do my own thing.” 

- Isabel Sloane

Meet Isabel Sloane, freelance writer and fashion features editor for Canada’s leading fashion magazine, FASHION MAGAZINE. Literate and opinionated from an early age, Isabel felt immediately disconnected from her small-town grade school peers. Not an abnormal experience for many young children; often, it’s one they grow and conform out of.  While it was unfortunate that her advanced reading level negated those early attempts at social connectivity, it merely fortified her self-confidence and independent mentality.

And, incidentally, miraculously, luckily for us,  she never outgrew it.

“By the time I graduated 8th grade, I was a full-blown freak. Like, ‘the only girl not invited to the pool party’-level of unpopular. And while I was kind of traumatized by the ostracization, it did sort of cement my lack of interest in fitting in.”

In a pre-internet childhood, Isabel felt freer to discover alternative art, music, movies, and more. She  uncovered a few unexpected personal passions -- including an empathy for all things “other.” One of those personal passions was fashion.

The fashion world is a complicated place. Much like its own city, the world of fashion is full of leaders and rule (trend) setters, and alongside them, the rebels and rulebreakers. There’s high, low, modesty, liberation, and everything in between. It’s another social construct of sorts. Another social construct Isabel longed to participate in, and critically observe. Then, introduce the notion of feminism, and the fashion world becomes a (somehow) more fascinating place. Introduce the notion of feminism to a nuanced young fashion fan like Isabel, and suddenly you have magic.

Isabel’s difficult ostracization as a child, while hard, enabled her to be a thoughtful independent thinker, and ultimately, writer. She started her own fashion blog called “Hipster Musings,” which blew up, and earned her loads of credibility and attention online. As the trend of fashion blogging ballooned into an online movement dominated by product placement and showy influencers, Isabel pivoted from her blog and stepped deeper into the world of writing. While this transition was difficult, it shaped her into an even more insightful writer, only further equipping her for a defense of nuanced thought. During a time of filtered images and manufactured personas, her authentic voice has never been more valuable.  

From celebrating women’s body hair, to her well-reasoned feminist defense of Hooter’s, Isabel approaches her subjects with a seasoned objectivity that only a true outsider can genuinely muster. She’s the court jester, the fool of the tarot: she observes, comments, and even moderates. She feels equipped and privileged to be the voice of the other, in the fashion circles she writes for, and beyond.

“[My weirdness] allows me to come up with stories that are unusual and most other people wouldn’t have considered. The downside is that there’s a smaller audience for those types of stories, but I’d rather be proud of the work that I do and have a few people relate to it rather than an audience of a million people...”

As a freelance writer and fashion editor, she’s in the perfect position to question and critique. Down to her daily participation in her magazine pitch meetings, Isabel makes it her job to cover alternative stories that would interest, and ultimately, enrich the mainstream.

What began as a simple fashion blog by a small-town high schooler led Isabel Sloane into the crazy, wacky world of feminist fashion writing.  Beneath her love for fashion writing is a love for insightful, individual expression -- something so rare and beautiful, amidst much of the brash binaries and sensationalized oversimplification we see today.

“I tend to be ambivalent about most things in the world, but I am delighted to be considered “weird.”

________

If short, if there’s anything to be learned, I feel it is this: perceived “weirdness” merely opens our eyes to the blind spots (literally and figuratively) in our society. There is great wisdom to be found in the “weird” nooks and crannies, and even gaping divides between individuals. Consider these three, yes, but ultimately, consider the “weirdness” among the collective with new eyes as well.

Truly -- what other strange, unknown gems of “weird” truth are out there, waiting to be found, catalogued, and embraced?

[czugwrite]

Particles and Waves: The Light of the Giving Keys

Published article for The Yellow Co.’s monthly member magazine. 

(Photo credit: The Yellow Co.)

For many years, scientists believed that light was a wave. It bounced and behaved with the personality of a singular ocean wave, and was independently characterized as such. But then, with closer observation, we noticed that sometimes, light surprised us. Sometimes it came and went, danced and disappeared. We had to realize there was more going on. As we learned, we saw light is also a teeming cloud of tiny particles. And a wave. We realized that, in fact, light moves and behaves as two very different things -- simultaneously. And the more we studied the brilliance of light, seemingly simple to access and appreciate, the more of a miracle it became.

For some, from afar, the GIving Keys is just light: “Creating employment for people transitioning out of homelessness.”  Bright, beautiful, and easy to comprehend. It’s a key on a string. A powerful wave of do-gooders.  Another lovely social enterprise shining truth, goodness and hope into the darkness of our world. And to say this of the Giving Keys is by no means an underestimation. What began as a creative side-venture from the mind of Caitlyn Crosby, the merch table of key necklaces quickly grew into a booming company with over 70 employees, with products carried in hundreds of upscale department stores. And along with all the cultural success, the Giving Keys has also assisted dozens of individuals in moving beyond homelessness, by providing them steady employment.

But what happens when you zoom in? When you examine that light on a smaller scale? You see it’s more than just a big, wave-like movement. It’s also many tiny particles, and demonstrates a rich, deep, miraculous complexity. Every day, The Giving Keys generates light, but it does so by bringing together very different groups of people, from different backgrounds, and putting them side by side in a daily working environment. And together, they illuminate lives by eliminating homelessness.

One sunny morning in Los Angeles, I was privileged enough to witness some of this happen.  I got to meet with several sweet souls at the Giving Keys headquarters, in order to better understand this magical mashup of diverse working professionals.

And like the duality of light, what I encountered there was miraculous.

(Photo credit: The Giving Keys)

An air of openness and strength greeted me at the door of their large, organized warehouse. Its worn, practical surfaces were accented with clean, monochrome design. Textured farmhouse tables and black communal desks rested side by side. It was a charming sensory overload, from the zesty ‘80s playlist, to the chiming of necklace chains, to the fingers tap-tapping away -- some upon keyboards, some upon actual keys. It had the energy of something like Santa’s workshop, if he were a millennial jewelry maker. It was that magical.

Even more than the aesthetics and the music, however, what really caught my attention were the people. Looking around the room, before I said a word to anyone, I could sense their culture of creativity and kindness. At first glance, their unity made everyone appear similar, like one a harmonious force of production. Particles and waves.

But as I stepped back and truly considered the people I was looking at, I was able to realize just how different they all were -- in every way! They were a rainbow of color, a spectrum of ages, a hodge-podge of human beings. Like the jewelry they were making, the place sparkled with stark diversity.

Wide-eyed and in love, I fought to stifle my glee as I shook hands with two glowing Giving Keys employees, Ashley and Pa. Ashley, fair and dainty, reminded me of a most sincere cheerleading captain, with her bright smile and pretty pin-stripe dress. Pa rocked a colorful baseball cap and Giving Keys choker, and  towered over her like a sequoia.  We settled into the company’s lovely refurbished Airstream, and enjoyed a discussion about their experiences related to our theme, “Come Together.”

Sitting side by side, Pa and Ashley couldn’t have been more profoundly different. And yet, their joy was the same. This is some of our conversation.

Ashley, who works in marketing, discovered the Giving Keys while hunting for a unique gift for a friend. Intrigued by the company’s message on the packaging, her passion for non-profit work led her to pursue a position there. Pa, now a production associate, found his way to the Giving Keys while on his journey out of homelessness. He left his home in West Africa, worked his way through the program at LA’s Union Rescue mission, and eventually became eligible for a job interview. This summer, both Ashley and Pa hit their one-year mark with the Giving Keys.

As the two sat, laughed and chatted together, the heart of the company beat loudly before me. I realized these were more than just two individuals employed by the same company. They were colleagues, authentic and caring -- true examples of two different people, working together for good.

Pa shared a bit of his story first. explaining how his work at the Giving Keys has shaped him so far.  “No matter where I came from, all the types of stuff I been through, they accept me for who I am. And I am very grateful for that.” He paused, almost reflective. “ I thank God, and I pray for this place every day. The Giving Keys, they help change lives.”

The gratefulness that Pa recounted also stirred Ashley to affirm the community element at their office. “But when we talk about who’s serving who, it’s literally a question,” she entreated with passion. “It’s not whether one population is serving another -- there is no line like that that exists here, it’s very much an all-together community, with all of us learning from one another. “

Particles and waves. We explored this idea further, unlikely individuals coming together to help sell and make key necklaces, of all things. I asked them about the challenges of working in an environment where they may be hesitant or afraid at first  to connect with someone so unlike them.

“I’m not really open; if I don’t know you, I close up, “ Pa laughed. A totally normal human reaction, and probably the reason why most people struggle to form new acquaintances -- even in a working environment where people are more externally similar!

“It’s not necessarily we want to run from people who are different from us, but how do I  relate to someone who is so different from me?,” Ashley sincerely posited. “What do I say to that person? How do you communicate on an equal level without sounding weird or awkward, or not cool?”

“Or offending them!” Paul laughed again.

He went on to reveal how opening up to people finally occurs for him. “Once I start talking, and knowing who [someone is],  I just want to embrace them and say, hey, like, you came from a dark, dark, dark time in life, like...” He searched for words. “I thought I had the biggest problems before I came here. But working with people who come from different sorts of backgrounds, experiences in life, from all types of problems -- [they’re] just like mine. Maybe little different, but they have beat them, overcome them, and they landed right here, next to me.”

Pensive and appreciative, Pa went on. “It’s like God was just telling me something all along, and I wasn’t listening. Then he put me in a place where I could see it all and feel it all. It’s weird.”

Ashley nodded. “We all look at our own pasts, and not all of us have experienced homelessness, but we have experienced rough things. I think at the end of the day, even though everyone comes from such a unique past and unique differences, we’re all excited to have a sense of belonging somewhere, and a sense of value to what we’re doing on a day to day...It would be a worse case scenario if we had to split our production warehouse and our admin into different buildings.”

She explained a little more about the environment of the warehouse, how it is working alongside various experience levels and personalities. “Having that kind of diversity in experience allows us to move at a quick pace, and have innovative ideas...It can make it challenging, but there’s such a culture here about accepting who we are in the present and not who we are in the past. Because in this present moment, we all want to be together. What any of us did in our past or the paths we came from [is] just part of our story, but not part of our existence.”

Pa echoed her sentiment. “We just have fun in here, and do the best we can. To change our lives, and change other people’s lives with what we do. I love what we do.”

Listening to the two of them share, my curiosity bubbled over, wondering how other other companies or organizations might be able to implement this beautiful model of the Giving Keys. “It can be a challenge at first,” Ashley noted. “But if your leadership team is behind it, and makes it a priority to work and continue to figure it out,  having that vision can be enough to create a space where it can feel more open and connected and more community oriented.”

Later, I had a chance to meet with Tina, a transitioning employee who currently works in customer service. She’s a tender, loving soul with dancing eyes. Her warmth was disarming.

She told me a story about coming to Los Angeles with no money and no plan. “I had a pretty good idea that I was gonna end up homeless when I got here...But [I thought], whatever it takes to get on my feet, I’m doing it on my own. I was scared, but I stuck it out.” She later discovered Chrysalis, the organization that partners with the Giving Keys to assist and prepare homeless individuals for job interviews and upward movement. “I worked their program for a couple of months, and finally got an interview at the Giving Keys.”

Tina worked in production for some time, even earning a promotion, before applying for her current customer service role.  “I had never done that kind of work, but they saw that I had it in me to learn the skill. They gave me that opportunity and I’m doin’ it, and doin’ it well!” She laughed goodnaturedly, and, again, I couldn’t help but note her infectious joy.

I asked if the Giving Keys’ diverse environment ever felt like a challenge for her. “I don’t see [working here] as a challenge, I see it as an opportunity to get to know people from different backgrounds. It’s an opportunity for me to learn. My department that I work in, I’m old enough to be all of their mothers. But they’re so cool... [My kids] are not here in LA with me, so the opportunity for me to bond with that age here at the GIving Keys is a mothering experience.”

“You don’t have that fear of being judged or treated  differently for expressing your individual view. It’s taken in, respected, and you’re moving on. You think it’d be awkward, but it’s not. Everything is very welcoming, and very comfortable here,” she added.

We sat for a few more moments outside, and a light summer breeze drifted between us. It had only been a day, and even I myself, a writer and an outsider, felt at home there.

As I was leaving, I caught one last glimpse of Ashley and Pa. I noticed the white key around her neck read ‘TRUST’ and the small silver one around his, ‘DREAM.’ Walking back to my car, I reflected on these words.

The light created by the Giving Keys transcends all people, colors, ages, and backgrounds. The simple key on a chain can pair with any outfit, dressed up or down, male, female, or anything in between. The different people working there, with their colorful backgrounds, weave a tapestry of diversity there that is beautiful and unique. But even after listening to all of their stories, I was still so mystified by this duality of people and cultures at the company. Particles and waves.

Maybe that’s the thing about light. The more you study it, the more it’s a mystery. And that’s ok.

[czugwrite]

Journey To Splat Plateau: The Rise and Fall of Silver Sloane

A feature-length children's play for premiere international camp and conference center, Hume Lake.

Hume is a non-profit organization that offers epic, high-energy, life-changing youth camp programs for individuals, churches, schools and teams. Based in California and with campuses in Hawaii, New England, and throughout Asia, Hume Lake offers team building, Outdoor Education, sports training facilities, retreats and conferences, and resources several humanitarian efforts in South America and Asia. My story treatment submission was selected, and I penned an original stage play, broken up into 5 daily sketches, integrating biblical values, slapstick comedy, and age-appropriate drama. The children's play is to be performed all summer 2017, for hundreds of elementary schoolers per week.

For more information about Hume Lake, CLICK HERE. 

[czugwrite]

Maybe This Will Be Our Happily Ever After

Featured piece in Thought Catalog’s Popular feed.

Photo Credit: crien

To read the original post,  CLICK HERE.

[czugwrite]

Yellow Conference 2016 Recap

An official recap of the conference I interned with this summer.

To check out the original post, CLICK HERE!

http://yellowconference.com/2016/09/01/yellow-2016-recap/

[czugwrite]

Artist and a Humanist: Richard Linklater, an American Director

Unpublished article submission to Fibonacci Fine Arts Digest May 2016. Writer-Director Richard Linkater’s recent release prompts a study of his past projects, highlighting his unique style.

Photo: http://www.detourfilm.com/#detour

It was in the shiny opening weeks of my first semester of film school that I was fortunately introduced to the work of renowned American filmmaker, Richard Linklater. I caught an offhand recommendation of Linklater’s Before Sunrise from an ordinarily stoic professor, whose eyes uncharacteristically betrayed a subtle yet significant inspiration when he spoke of it. With my purple-glitter gel pen, I made note of the title and, unbeknownst to bright-eyed freshman me, thus began my enduring fascination with Linklater’s masterfully personal filmmaking style.

Writer-directors are set apart by their style, themes, and characters of choice; they gravitate toward a certain genre or setting, and it’s frequently apparent in their projects. For Alfred Hitchcock, it was mind-bending mysteries. Quentin Tarantino? Non-linear action-adventures. Tim Burton? Zany fantasies. For Linklater, his outstanding genre, theme, and characters can be summated in one word: people.

Like William Wordsworth with a camera, he’s a romantic realist, and his films are a celebration of human life, love, and struggle, typically during specific, fixed periods of time. His frequent “day-in-the-life-of” stories exchange flash and shock value for honesty and thoughtfulness.  Like a creative documentarian, he curates his scenes and characters with flawless realism. While most films demonstrate a classic three-act structure, in a Linklater film, traditional structure serves more as a guide, than a dictator. His character-driven, dialogue-heavy projects remark at the world in often simple, yet profound ways. His scripts are known to include great expanses of improv, as he -- like a merry toymaker -- enjoys simply winding up characters and letting them go. He and his audiences alike reap the onscreen benefits this organic, cinematic magic brings forth.

Few accomplished artists are without a tumultuous backstory, and Linklater is no different. Son of a college professor and a prison guard, before making his amateur entrance into the film world at age 27, his early life in Huntsville, Texas was colored with the difficulty of his parents’ separation (an uncomfortable anomaly in the 1960s), and a passionate pursuit of baseball. One of the best young players in the Lone Star State,  Linklater’s athleticism secured him a spot on a college team -- till an unfortunate health condition removed him from playing altogether. Stripped of his initial plans and passions, he left college to live and work on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, where he discovered a new love: storytelling. He threw himself into books and movies, and began saving up for a camera. Those formative years on the oil rig enabled his growing interest in film, until he was finally able to write and produce his first feature film in 1988. And the rest, as they say, is history.

28 years have passed since the release of his first film and the release of his most recent film, “Everybody Wants Some!!” which hit select theaters on March 30, 2016. Currently, Linklater sits in the most amicable spot of his career thus far. Finally circling back to what he’d been forced to shelf in years past, he’s now able to enjoy the release of this loosely autobiographical, coming-of-age passion project about his collegiate baseball days in 1980.

In celebration of this film, for patrons of Linklater or new fans seeking to further delve into his work, the following is a short journey through a few unique films from this acclaimed director, Richard Linklater.

1. Dazed and Confused (1993)

Meandering through the perspectives of varying high school students on the last day before summer vacation, this classic Linklater film chronicles the coming-of-age experience through relatable, archetypical moments of American teenagers in 1976. The narrative explores the paradoxical collision of self-confidence and insecurity, independence and comradery, and both the crippling boundaries and liberating freedoms which adolescence during ANY era involves. Experimentation with drugs, partying, and general tomfoolery highlight the characters’ lovable rebellion in the face of the system which seeks to domesticate their wild yet innocent grasp of their world. With a delightfully young yet vibrant cast, and snappy soundtrack to boot, there’s a reason this film (Linklater’s second!) became a household name.

Photo: Criterion Collection, https://www.criterion.com/current/posts/2049-behind-the-scenes-of-dazed-and-confused

2. Before Sunset (1995)

In the classic Linklater style, this film takes place across a single day in Vienna, Austria, where two twentysomethings -- a cynical American and idealistic French student -- meet on a train, caught between separate journeys abroad. They begin a riveting conversation about life and love, evoking such palpable chemistry and friendship, that they vow to meet again in six months. The first of a trilogy, the sophisticated simplicity of this film, as well as its successors, is remarkably enchanting -- a clear and natural maturation of Linklater’s style.

Photo: http://www.moviestillsdb.com/movies/before-sunrise-i112471/0b27ac74

3. School of Rock (2003)

Shaking things up with a totally fun and off-the-wall family comedy, this film follows a down-and-out musician as he trains up a classroom of elementary schoolers in the ways of rock and roll. Although Linklater didn’t pen the script, his love for people and music shines through in the way the piece so flawlessly handles the large ensemble cast of kids, learning to play music and eventually performing for an epic Battle of the Band show. A quotable classic in its own right and seasoned with a popping soundtrack, “School of Rock” is far and away another gem from Linklater’s career.

Photo: http://www.pluggedin.com/movie-reviews/schoolofrock/

4. Boyhood (2014)

Linklater’s most ambitious and wildly discussed project thus far, “Boyhood” was captured over the course of twelve years, following the same cast and characters as they aged naturally and faced the seemingly ordinary challenges of growing up. Linklater cast a six-year-old actor in 2002, who by the film’s release, was 18 years old. While the film received somewhat mixed reviews, the thought and years poured into the story’s development, and mind-boggling realism as the age of the actors piles up, is a majestic cinematic feat. Nominated for multiple Academy Awards, including Best Picture, this film is a culmination of everything Linklater loves about storytelling, and is a truly majestic work of art.

Photo: New Wave Film, http://www.newwavefilm.com/interviews/geoff-andrew-interview.shtml

5. Everybody Wants Some!! (2016)

A continuation of “Dazed and Confused,” as some have put it, Linklater’s most recent release captures a similar tone from the 1993 film, but set in the early ‘80s, and in college rather than high school. Inspired by Linklater’s own days of playing college baseball, the story follows a freshman pitcher over his first weekend before school begins, in true Linklater fashion. The luscious retro atmospheres and nostalgic costumes and hairstyles are a delight to behold. While the raunchy comedy isn’t for everyone, it’s a thrill to revisit a coming-of-age journey reminiscent of the very film that put Linklater on the map of cinema in the first place.

Photo: Paramount, http://www.vox.com/2016/4/7/11350426/everybody-wants-some-richard-linklater-boyhood

In a time when remakes and reboots are everything and everywhere, it’s refreshing to know there’s at least one artist out there who, likely at this very minute, is conjuring up yet another deliciously original project. Richard Linklater will continue to delve into the human condition for many, many films to come, and with each one, another facet of humanity celebrated and explored. Like I myself discovered the uniqueness of Linklater’s incredibly accessible, intimate work, I can only hope others come to share in a deeper, more appreciative understanding of one of the most ingenuitive directors in the industry today. And don’t worry if you missed something: my purple-glitter gel pen and I will takes notes if you miss anything Linklater at all.

[czugwrite]

#RSD16: Records and Music and Movies (Oh My!)

A conversational write-up on National Record Store Day, vinyl-collecting culture, and brief recap of records in classic American cinema.

(Photo Credit: SMLXL Vinyl)

     So, today is International Record Store Day, a global celebration of independently-run record stores still barely holding on – or so it would seem.

          According to the stipulations of the day, a tried and true indie record store must make at least 50% of its sales from in-store retail – not online – and contain at least 70% of its merchandise within a physical brick-and-mortar store. And, for obvious reasons, it cannot belong to any chain or publicly traded corporation. Past decades naturally enjoyed a proliferation of these musical Meccas; every town or city had one. But today’s traders, collectors, and “crate-diggers” must ardently defend their vinyl romance by supporting the few record store gems remain. These tough yet precious establishments glisten with tenacity, and days like #RSD Day help them endure.

   There’s a rare and inspirational magic to contemporary vinyl aficionados, in that they are totally content to sacrifice convenience for quality. Enjoying a vinyl record poses an entirely different musical experience than CDs or MP3s. Records were necessarily designed for total intake of an album in its complete form at one time, most commonly at home, where player, speaker, and receivers could be set up together. Listening to a record was an activity in and of itself, with a room or corner, not unlike a shrine, specifically devoted to its engagement. 

     Unfortunately, the progression of time, listening, and recording technologies dismantled the holistic musical intake to a mere abstract shuffling of singular tracks, irrespective of the physical album’s cohesive chronology. More than ever, artists today fight to peddle the experience of a full album against the appeal of a MP3 download -- legal or otherwise. Skipping through songs, albums, and artists instantaneously on a portable device is devoid of any real care or commitment, and reflected in its simplistic sound. Changing over and maintaining a record collection requires an exchange of time, storage, and effort for enjoyment its audible treasures. But, the sky is blue, water wet, and, unsurprisingly, convenience has beat out quality.

      But true audio purists don’t seem to care about that. They demonstrate an unrelenting refusal to cheapen the listening experience with modernity. Their preferred analog system of stationary record players, speakers, and receivers resting in a room necessitates an ongoing intentionality and care that the portable pod and buds know not. One is a centerpiece of the foreground, the other an accessory for the background, both communicating a certain social standing and intended function.         So intrigued was I by today’s tribute to this dated medium, I was moved to reflect on how important records are to our culture. I realized there’s a colorful, almost tangible cultural significance records have had in film-making. Some of my most beloved films have all featured a scene in a record store. Because there’s something visually dynamic about them, an energy that translates so incredibly well on camera. With the colors, the lighting, the textures, the dust -- all of it makes for an especially unique background which has become less and less common in films today. There’s also a special romance in a box of records. So many brilliant possibilities rest there, everything bright, hopeful, zany, and sexy. It’s a seamless reflection of the characters’ interactions with each other. I’m hard-pressed to determine which space has replaced “the record store” setting of modern day love stories

      Anyway, here are some of my favorite film sequences featuring vinyl records. Since they were such an integral part of American culture for so long, so it’s nice to know there is indeed a whole day dedicated to them!    

     Enjoy Record Store Day by looking up a local one or visit www.recordstoreday.com to find events in your area!

1. "One more tune..."

Pretty in Pink (1986)

What's a good old 80s John Hughes teen flick without an obligatory dance scene? It's seriously one of the greatest. Beats out Bueller's, hand's down.

2. "It's just music. It's not that big of a deal."

Diner (1982)

The incredibly, unfortunately underrated Daniel Stern in one of the greatest dramatic performances of his career. He scares because he cares.

3. "Wanna go see if that old listening booth still works?"

Before Sunset (1995)

The first and best of an incredible trilogy of indie films, this scene is almost unparalleled in its awkward, prolonged romantic tension.

4. "Octopus' Garden is the best Beatles song ever recorded."

500 Days of Summer (2009)

This film is all about the retro tunage and indie alternatives. I couldn't find a better version, so for posterity's sake, you might just wanna go watch the whole film right now.

5. "What's with all the vinyl?"

Warm Bodies (2013)

Sadly disguised as Twilight with zombies, the heart of this film is a far cry from its vampiric evil twin -- as expertly demonstrated by this Springsteen record scene. The whole soundtrack is perfection.

6. "I really love stacking CDs."

Pitch Perfect (2012)

Okay, this isn't one of my favorite films, but one has to appreciate the writers' attempt at The Cute Record Store Scene. Points for effort, and near (pitch) perfect execution of a classic.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fNy6MlH5nA

7. "You look like an Elvis fan."

Lilo and Stitch (2002)

A pleasant surprise with an awesomely bizarre premise (Aliens in Hawaii??). The record player really classed up the youthful spirit of this film in a tender way.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vKH3hPvBrE

8. "I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing."

The Shawshank Redemption (1994)

You can't not.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azWVPWGUE1M

9. "You have anything less political?"

Pretty In Pink (1986)

Yes, I included this film twice. But, it's one of my favorites, and this is my blog. So, whatever.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2rK98EAhzU

[czugwrite]

Epiphany

When respecting your elders means respecting yourself.

Last night, I was dusting some powder across an actor’s face in between takes of Kapris and Me. Being up close to him, I was able to study the small intricacies of his face from a pretty personal angle – an angle that honestly wouldn’t probably be comfortable or appropriate in any other setting. Even though we’re pretty distant friends, we’ve been acquainted for close to five years now, during that oh-so-perplexing transition between teenager and adult. But there’s an honest understanding there, a comfortable familiarity between us that’s fun, and unique – again, distant but rewarding.

As I was dusting the powder, given this intimate view of his skin, I couldn’t help but notice its condition, its story. He’s only in his mid-twenties, but already, I could see fine lines beginning to form on his forehead, lines one wouldn’t notice from far away, but up close, were somewhat prominent. Shocked, my eyes darted across the rest of his face. And there too were other lines. Beside each eye. Near his mouth. On the sides of his neck.

Lines.

Creases.

Signs of age.

W r i n k l e s.

I suddenly had a moment where I filled with an immature, little-sister-like urge to playfully taunt him about my discovery, to gently tease him about his appearance, as if he were unaware. “You’ve got some lines, buddy,” I was about to say.

But something stopped me. After studying his fine lines, I pulled back to look over his entire, sweet face, eyes closed obediently just as I’d instructed him. Trusting. Gentle. Grounded. Assured. He was the very same person that I’d known five years before. Except with lines. Lines that made him a different person than the kid I knew at 19.

Something in my heart grew, and an overwhelming wave of emotion flooded my chest.

“You’ve got lines.”

The phrase echoed silently in my head, but this time, filled with love and wonder, not mockery. Suddenly, I found his lines so completely beautiful.

See, I’m only a year younger than him. And lately, I’ve noticed a few lines on my face too. On my forehead. Lines that have bothered me. Intimidated me. Scared me.

But by really studying the lines of my friend’s face, I could no longer bring myself to think badly about them. They are, I realized, a very natural thing. A widely unpreventable thing. Lines are a part of life. They indicate age, but they also indicate experience. Wisdom. Maturity. Dedication. Lines indicate work, and passion, and life. They tell a story. They prove to you and everyone else that you’ve accomplished life on this planet for an extended period of time; you’ve seen, felt, and experienced things, and have something marvelous to show for it.

I paused and studied his lines some more. I was proud that our friendship had now carried us into this stage of life.

I felt like Jennifer Garner in “13 Going On 30,” after she and Mark Ruffalo jump off of the swing set. She takes hold of his arm for the first time since they were kids, and marvels at his arm hair. “You’ve got arm hair,” she whispers, smiling, filled with awe and fascination. “It’s never quite got that reaction before,” he replies, amused by her amusement.

“You’ve got lines,” I wanted to say to David. And of course, what I’d mean would be “Wow - You’ve earned lines.” You’re growing up. We’re growing up. We’ve made it to this point, to this stage of life where these things are normal. Beautiful. Exciting. We’ve remained friends into these fine years of fine lines. And that’s okay. More than okay. It’s pretty darn beautiful.

I’m thinking differently about lines now. I’d encourage you to too. :)

[czugwrite]

2/14

The romance behind what happens when you don’t try.

I couldn’t decide between adventurous or familiar, so we flipped a coin (dropped it, rather), and ended up at a Costa Rican restaurant I’ve driven past for years, but never tried. Nestled between a donut shop and a thrift store, in the corner of a shady strip mall, its exterior was none too inviting… But, the coin had spoken, and Adventure called. I love exploring the unknown alone, but when someone else’s night is on the line too, it can make me dizzy Nervous.

We stepped through the front door and into something magical.

We were greeted with green plants and painted parrots hung all around the ceiling, and a quaint, gushing fountain built directly into the entryway – the Enchanted Tiki Room meets Rick’s Cafe.  “Are you here for dinner or for the event?” the woman at the front asked us.

“Dinner…?” one of us stuttered, still struck by what we’d just walked into.

A step down into the restaurant revealed bright decorations adorning the archways and pillars inside. Red streamers and hanging hearts, and a sultry reddish-pink light bathed the center of the place, where tiny sparkling reflections swam across the room, off a slowly spinning disco ball. And a small stage with a band, with softly swaying couples on a big dance floor.

It was like slipping into a movie.

I couldn’t stop grinning at all the Perfect Everything.

We talked and ate and stared at each other, and the room, and the dancing patrons. So picturesque, and safe, we were transported somewhere, far and away from Anaheim, California.

“Jurassic Park took place in Costa Rica…”

“I remember.”

He remembered.

And it was only right that we danced too, one song or two, before we left. How in the name of St. Valentine could we not?

…Much different than sassy swing is sexy salsa, but it’s safe to say, we (he) had it handled…

We ended our night with a backyard movie outside, on a borrowed projector and a bowl of popcorn. And the original, 1979 Muppet Movie, because he #getsit. Boy, oh boy, does this Boy get it.

We talked about stories and cheese and time and New York, until I couldn’t remember wanting anyone but him. I pushed his face away from mine – my favorite thing to do when I want it most – and couldn’t stop smiling. It was gross and perfect and didn’t ever feel real. Ever.

From the two-foot-twelve rose, to the South American chocolate he gave me, and the pop-up card with glitter and puns, he won Valentine’s Day. He won it, and me, and a second dance, and a kiss, and our night outside under the stars, twice in two days. He never got his shooting star, but I had four, including him, and I’ll hope for many, many more nights like this because it’s the first one I’ll write about where I can’t find a doubt.

Valentine’s Day has always been mine, except for once, when I had to share it, which was weird and uncertain and unique. And then it was mine again, for four more years, to do with what I pleased, and I preferred it that way.

When I started to realize, once again,  it might no longer belong to me alone, I was scared. What if sharing it would be boring, or cheesy, or complex, or guilt-ridden like before? Or harder, or less fun? What if I realized, in the end, I just wanted it back? What then? What if sharing Valentine’s Day now was even weirder than before? How would I feel, or he feel, or everyone else feel?

But this time wasn’t like last time. This time wasn’t about Valentine cliches or dinner reservations or scented candles. It was about real life, and good things, and dancing, and spicy South American chocolate passed along from a co-worker, and new experiences, and popcorn, and The Muppets. And a literal walk in the park.

And it was as easy as breathing.

It was a night that I won’t soon forget, and will surely haunt me all week long.

[czugwrite]

The Remedy for Melody

A whimsical frustration with forgetting.

It bothers me that it bothers me. Because by now, I think it shouldn’t.

I’m rooms away. Behind closed doors, playing my own music, prepping for a night of rainbow lights and bossy base lines. My mind is on the heat of the air and the burn of my hair, twisted around curlers and a mist with hairspray. Dusty eye shadows are sprawled across the bathroom counter and blush brushes laden with bronzer and rouge give everything that class-act nostalgic warmth that I love. I’m powdering on Fantasy and Whimsy, puckering on Imagination and Bliss.

It’s faint at first. Like a shiny, silver sliver, it slices, shimmies through my shroud of Peace of bubblegum self-assurance. The softest strum of familiar chords flutter down the hall and through my door. They float, or rather, gloat, above my pretty head, whirring around – taunting, tormenting. I literally flinched.

At first, I think I’m crazy, but to be sure, I drop everything I’m doing and all but run into the next room. I want to be wrong. So badly.

My eyes rush past the cluttered walls to the saturated words on the tiny LED screen. And I’m wrong about being wrong. Those all-too-familiar words above the artist’s name confirm my defeat, and all I can do is stare. But then I have to get away. Retreat.

“Where’d you get that song?” I throw over my shoulder.

“Work.”

She doesn’t even know. She can’t know. The song found her.

I resign myself back to the bathroom and stare at the mirror for a long time, the pleasantry of my previous disposition dissolved. Is this my life now? It’s already been a year, how long will it last? How long will I think I’ve progressed beyond the crippling effect of these memories, only to be forcibly slung back into this pitiful pit of regretful recollection? Closed off from closure and resolution, there’s a wretched lingering of something undefinable lost. It’s haunting – an intangible torture, cruel and unusual. Some days I wish we’d never met, and that I might have never endured these things in this way. They were beautiful songs, but they’re forbidden till I can think on them and not on you. They’re tainted beauties I still can’t abide. With as much love as I had for them, I now hold equal disgust. Not at you, but at myself. Unlike Passenger, I can’t let it go.

Shaded for too long by the darkness of the upper level, as the lines of Pretty Young Thing graced our ears, I knew it was time to emerge onto the dance floor. With or without the rest of the dance clan, I was headed back out there. And he was too. Almost.

As I skipped down the stairs to the beat, the rainbow lights washing over my way, it occurred to me he was still there, behind me on the deck. For the first time, I reached out for his hand, and pulled him down the landing with me. An intentionally rapid preliminary physical assertion over as quickly as it began. I gave him a gentle tug in my direction before releasing my already slight grip and assimilating into the blurry crowd of colorful, dancey youth. He followed accordingly, but I couldn’t shake The Memory from my mind and it distracted me for the duration of the song night…

Alone in our consciousness, we were the only two souls still awake in the wide, wide world; one boy and one girl under the sole light of a shadowy room. In hushed voices and nervous glances, we observed truths about the world far better discussed with clearer heads, under far less romantic circumstances.

You drew in a breath, and hesitated before asking, “Do you think it’s possible… to know exactly what God wants you to do?” Your jet eyes searched mine with weighted sincerity.

I stared at your mouth and then your eyes and then your mouth.

“I… don’t know,” I whispered back, trying to process your words. “I definitely think it’s possible to know what God doesn’t want us to do… He lays that out pretty clearly. But I think as far as what we should do…he leaves it up to us a lot of times.”

Your golden skin was looking even warmer against the cool tones of the night and before I carried that thought any further, your hand was woven through mine.

We stood and stared at our hands, intrigued by the odd sight and sensation. Our hands looked and felt exactly the same; it was like holding the same one.

Your fingers laced easily through mine like fine embroidery to a taunt, silken canvas – artist hands, slight like mine, soft and sensual instead of weathered and rough. You turned over my hand and coaxed it open like an unfurled blossom. With masterful delicacy, you traced tiny circles into my palm and down each finger. You tenderly explored the smooth expanse and the intricacies therein, before weaving us back together.

Only once had my hands held another’s in this way, but never had it felt so perfectly engineered, so acutely orchestrated.

I don’t know when you’re supposed to know, or how, but thinking back on all of this somehow tells me I already do. It’s been two months, and I’ve never really been sure. But the truth is, the knowing just isn’t there. The trust, the familiarity, the warmth. They say comparison is the thief of joy, but in this case, I say it’s the harbringer of it. Maybe. Just maybe.

[czugwrite]

RED

An expected gift from 2012 necessitates an album-review-turned-personal-epiphany.

     And just like that, it was my turn. A square package was placed before me. I turned it over in my hands to try and guess what it was. A light tap on its thin side told me everything I needed to know: it was a CD.

     Emboldened with curiosity, I quickly tore away at its wrapping. The shiny crimson paper fell away to reveal an even deeper crimson beneath. The word RED shone up at me beside the sultry silhouette of one Taylor Swift. My enthusiasm halted and I was intrigued.

     A Swift CD? For me? How curious. I knew a handful of her songs, but had never expressed any serious fandom. Not that he really knew me well enough to even know that. It was interesting to me that this was his choice. Most likely, I reasoned, he didn't know what to get me, but figured he couldn't go wrong with this. Still, it was sweet -- very sweet -- and I was touched to have received anything at all; just the purity of his kindness was enough to warm my heart.

     But then, I discovered the card.

     Disappointed at having broken the "Card First, Gift Second" law of present reception, I hung my head slightly as I slid my finger across the envelope. But my shame didn't last long. As I withdrew the card from its paper chamber and began reading the words transcribed therein, I was suddenly overcome with a crushing humility.

     Scribbled inside was an endearing paragraph adorned with compliments pertaining to my character, heart, and "brown-eyed beauty." Totally unprepared for this sincere expression of praise, I was rendered utterly speechless. "You are Taylor Swift, and so much more, and I'm profoundly grateful for your friendship." He went on to add how I reminded him of her, with my energy, smile and silliness, and while not everyone in the world might consider this comparison becoming, I was seriously flattered. And, did I mention, completely taken off guard? He was, after all, hardly a close friend of mine, and this felt so personal. I didn't read into it too much, and just took his words at face value. We were just friends--he'd expressed a heartfelt kindness, but nothing more.

     In any case, when the hype of the holidays eventually died down, I finally found time to slip my shiny new CD into the dusty, forgotten player that sat on my desk, and let it play.

     Never in my life had I personally owned any of Taylor's music, and yet, I found myself listening to that CD every day for nearly two semesters. The indignant drum beats of track one's State of Grace was the first thing to wake me up each morning. Getting ready to the soundtrack of Miss Swift's latest bout with love put an unabashedly romantic spin on my routine. Periodically, my mind would flash back to opening that card for the first time back in December, and his written words would echo in my mind. As I curled my hair or dusted  on eye shadow, the memory would infuse me with a sparkling confidence before I started my day. Not with arrogance, but rather in a healthy, and deeply affirming way.

     As a result, I now know all of the words to every single song on RED, so much so, that I was able to journey vicariously through the album through Taylor herself.  And what an experience that was -- every insecurity, every fear, every heartbreak and every new burst of butterflies has flown through my mind as I listened. Particularly for someone with as little experience with romance as I've had, to even partially tap into a small portion of those emotions and feelings was totally surreal for me. The majority of my adult life thus far I've spent actively avoiding the very situations which Taylor's music thrives upon, and while this has spared me a great deal of pain and heartbreak, it has also produced in me something I've affectionately entitled "the Tin Man effect." I've guarded my heart so intensely, it's as if I really have fortified my internal chest cavity with metal. Unwilling to entrust any vulnerability to others, and guys in particular, I've managed to successfully remove most of my own romantic inclinations, and have merely a sturdy yet empty shell to cower within. It's comfortable in there, don't get me wrong. Everything is neatly arranged the way I like it; I can go anywhere or do anything that pleases me within the padded pseudo-security of this unbound independence. There's a sweet, sweet freedom in that. Most of the time, I can't even conceive of what it would be like not to enjoy such liberties.

     Then, a few months back, I lost my RED CD.

     I tore through my room and all the crevices of my car, but failed to recover it. I continued to search, casually, at first, then with increasing desperation as it became more and more apparent to me exactly how lost it really was -- and how much the album truly meant to me.

     At first, I just made the simple switch to a Fun. CD I had, Some Nights. But it wasn't the same. While I enjoy the Arizona band musically, their lyrics are depressing and angsty, unlike the innocent audibles I'd previously enjoyed getting ready to. After a week, I removed the CD altogether, and simply began waking up to my phone alarm and getting ready in silence. And this has been the norm ever since.

    It's taken me a while to consciously realize all the reasons that I enjoyed RED so fiercely. Like I said, daily tapping in -- imaginatively--to Taylor's romances was fun, but I never suspected it to be more than that. Unbeknownst to me, however, it slowly caused me to begin to fall for the idea of love itself -- it brainwashed me, and I didn't even know it. Not until nearly half a year had gone by did I recognize the void its absence had left, not merely in my morning, but in the tiny shoots of my heart's budding aspirations.

     Recently, I looked up the album on Spotify and tried listening to the whole thing as I did some cleaning, but with the commercials and the separate atmosphere, it just couldn't compare. I felt (and still feel) locked out of Neverland.

     It's only just occurred to me that I may never be able to enjoy RED mornings the way that I did. I've thought about going out and buying myself a replacement. But in light of the love, friendship, and magic which my first copy had been bathed in, it would feel weird adopting a new, spiritless one. I don't know if I could stomach the walk back to the car from Target, with the cold, lifeless, cellophane-wrapped CD in hand, having experienced the disenchanting ordinariness of its obtainment firsthand. I know I'm being a little dramatic, but understand how highly uncharacteristic this is for me. I don't ever let things really get to me, nor do I allow them to make their way to my heart, but somehow, the spirit of this CD -- baptized by the thoughtfulness of my friend--made it happen. It kills me to admit it, especially about something as trivial as a Taylor Swift CD, but it's true.

     If ever RED does eventually find its way back into my life in an organic way, I'll warmly welcome it with open arms. But for now, I'm content to sink back into the tension between my old perception of romance --a distanced, complacent tolerance of its silly, impossible notions--and the intrinsically effervescent optimism of giddy Swift-esque infatuation. And I'll continue to drift through other collections of music till I happen upon an new morning routine album.

    It's just a CD, but it has me recalling that old saying, "'Tis better to have loved and lost than to never to have loved at all." I don't know if I believe that, but I do know that I believe--now more than ever -- that music is, in fact, quite powerful stuff.

[czugwrite]

Published album review of “City Lights,” release by singer-songwriter David Ottestad of The Workday Release.

[czugwrite]

Published album review of “City Lights,” latest release by singer-songwriter David Ottestad of The Workday Release. 

http://chimes.biola.edu/story/2015/feb/24/falling-out-love-and-life/

[czugwrite]

Trouble at LACMA

The drama of that adult-to-adult hand-slapped feeling.

“Give it to me.”

Deadpan and terrifying, the tall, angry security guard approached me with tenacious offense, motioning toward my phone. I froze, caught completely red-handed in the middle of a picture of this piece. I remembered blazing right past something like a small sign with a camera on it at the entrance, but couldn’t remember if it was promoting or prohibiting picture-taking…

“Ummm…what?” I squeaked in reply, grasping my phone in feigned confusion at his meaning. “Let me have it,” he said condescendingly, again holding out his hand.

My eyes searched his for some sign of comedic cave-in. I was a grown-adult museum patron – surely he wasn’t allowed to confiscate my phone.

“Ma'am, I’ll take it now.”

Suddenly a wide-eyed child, I handed over my phone and a thousand memories from grade school rushed through my head. I was never the girl that had her phone taken away, never the one in trouble for rule-breaking. I was the lamb of the schoolyard, a blind devotee to the system, for better or worse… But none of that mattered because this man didn’t care about that; to him, I was just another college-aged troublemaker defacing the museum with my dastard technology. My goodie-two-shoe laces officially untied, I shot a desperate look of disbelief over my shoulder at my friend, just in time to turn and see the security guard’s renewed expression.

The biggest, pearliest smile crept across his black face, and from his chest erupted the heartiest, most irreverent laughter. “I’ll take it – your picture, I mean!” Still crippled with shock in the wake of his little joke, I battled my blush as he held up the phone in question and snapped this photo.

It took one more photo for me to eventually find myself – and my smile – which he promptly captured as well, but, seriously, who really wants another cheesy, smiling, obligatory #LACMA portrait careening through their feed, amiriiiiight????

#FreewriteFriday (at LACMA Los Angeles County Museum of Art)

[czugwrite]

gold lust

An intimate observation of the profound, nearly spiritual connection between an instrument and its player.

      I move over, and suddenly, we've switched places. With commanding delicacy, he slips past me and into the seat -- too slowly to be self-assured, but far too quickly for a novice. He assumes a bright demeanor as he steadies his hands over the keys, and even before the music comes, I'm too stunned to speak.

     I didn't know he even played.

    With humble hesitation, he starts a melody at first I know, and then do not. I can tell he's focused on getting it right, but even so, he plays with remarkable ease. Quite unlike myself, and any side of him I'd seen thus far.

     It was so different than watching him play guitar. With him, guitar was always collaborative, always meant to be played with another, so the song was shared, communal, interdependent -- not inherently, but that's how he wanted it. And that's how it was. He needed, wanted other people involved, other participants in the music to make it a truly transcendent experience. He insisted on the power of making music together. It was important to him, and I mostly understood it. It was almost mystical, his reverie. It were as though, to him, music was synonymous with friendship and family, and neither could be singularly created or enjoyed. This revealed much to me about who he was -- or so I thought -- and I couldn't help but base a bit of my understanding of his person, habits, fears, and desires off of his insistence on the non-negotiable communism of music.

     This, however, left that all behind. This music was something that somehow could -- somehow did -- stand alone. Without any complimentary interference of another, bent over the instrument, he conjured this melody completely alone. As his fingers knowingly coaxed the black and white notes, I watched him disappear. It was like, just for a moment, he was the music and the music was him, and there was an indistinguishable semblance between the two. It wasn't showing off. He didn't need to show off. He didn't need anything. Just him and that piano, and that was okay. For once, it was okay.

     I just sat, mouth agape. Acute amazement often incurs my temporary paralysis, so while I don't recall moving, I do know that I somehow ended up leaving his side at the piano and sitting somewhere across the room. Staring. All my presuppositions about him dissolved, and I was left at a loss for words, in awe of this person I initially tried all too easily to dismiss from my life.

     What other hidden talents were inlaid in this boy? More than ever, in that moment, I wanted to explore those hidden corridors of his heart, home to whatever other mysteries I didn't know. Like a conquistador with gold-lust, I looked on at him, seated at the piano, with a renewed sense of wonder for who he was. I believe it was then that I involuntarily surrendered what little guarded territory of my heart I had left.

     Of course, this didn't last long. Something shifted in the room, and he reappeared suddenly, shaken from his spell. In a moment, he was himself again, cool, collected and in control. He rose from the piano bench, and we left the room to enjoy our other instruments and each other.

     I wouldn't see him disappear again like that till he disappeared for good, a few months later. And at times, I wish his memory would too.

[czugwrite]

The Scary, Unknown, Sparkling Blue

A relational allegory.

    I know it sounds cliche, but I really do have an excellent of direction.     I used to pride myself in my natural ability to read a map. From a young age, I had a bizarre understanding of orientation. I could easily find North, scribble down a route, and be off on my way. It didn't matter the color or the language or the terrain, I could always figure it out.           So then, it was funny to me when we found ourselves there. In all my years of navigational success, I seldom made a mistake. I never ended up anywhere I didn't plan to go.  But somehow, somewhere along the way, I must have made a wrong turn, misread the signs. Maybe the signs were old, or the right trail got washed away in a storm. Whatever the case, I didn't want to be there.      The hike up here was surprisingly beautiful. Easy. I don't remember whose idea it was, but it seemed like a good one. I didn't deeply know you, but I guess I was comfortable enough with the idea when you invited me along. It had been years since I'd hiked anywhere near this altitude, but as I combed through my closet in preparation, I was delighted to find that I still had most of my old gear. Up high on a dusty shelf, I found the box with my favorite all-terrain boots. It felt good to pull them on and lace them up tight again. Ready. Maybe I was crazy to hike something so advanced with a stranger. But it really had sounded like fun.      That was before I realized where we were going. I don't know how I didn't see it coming before.      Uncomfortable, I took a step backwards. You paid me no attention. Enchanted with the view, you pressed on. And while part of me was inspired by your sense of adventure, I knew it wasn't what I wanted. I quietly retraced my steps and headed out of there. You wouldn't miss me, and I wouldn't miss you, so there was no reason to make myself stay.      I was almost out of view, when you called out. Through the trees I heard my name, and turned. I remembered you. Your voice was sweet and familiar, and you weren't even within eyesight anymore. I couldn't compute how it made me feel. I felt safe, yet sad, and still very afraid of the scene I'd left. But I couldn't help but wonder what you wanted. Were you okay? No, I couldn't leave. If nothing else, I convinced myself that I had to be sure you were okay. With one fearful eye focused on the horizon, the rest of me reluctantly rejoined you on the trail.      When I saw you again, you looked taller. Your pack looked heavier than I remembered it, like you were prepared for something I wasn't. Puzzled, I slowed my pace to think through what I was missing.      You greeted me warmly as I approached and I flinched involuntarily because of where you were pointing, ahead of us on the trail. There was a parting in the foliage, and between two peaks, ahead, there was a flutter of sunlight on bluish sparkles. I'd never have admitted it then, but they were very pretty. I smiled politely, pretending not to notice, and kicked around some dirt. I mentioned that we should get moving, and you agreed. I clenched my fists tightly as, foot by foot, we climbed onward. I wondered if you knew where this would lead.      The path took us through a massive meadow, and hours of conversation flowed. I had no idea you'd never been here before--you walked like it was yours! With humility and humor, you revealed it was new to you too.      We ate our lunches on a log in the pretty clearing, and for the first time, I really looked at you. I hardly knew you, but you seemed so familiar. It was amazing to me how we'd found ourselves here. It felt like no time had passed at all, like we'd barely set out together. I wasn't even tired, which was encouraging to me,  because we'd come quite a long ways in a short amount of time. And because of that, I knew, our destination would soon be in sight. My stomach tied in knots. Maybe you would let me watch on, when we got there. Maybe you wouldn't make me get in. Maybe. Maybe we could walk this trail forever, and never have to reach the end.      The trail eventually turned upwards. Breathless and exhausted, I fought to match your pace. My pack felt heavier and heavier, and my feet started to hurt. I glanced at you, and your eyes were still fixated on the horizon. It sent a shiver up my spine. Now I knew. You understood the end.      My palms felt clammy and my head got fuzzy. I'd not seen anyone so determined. It was heartbreaking.      I told you I needed to sit. For a moment, your resolve wavered. I leaned against a fallen tree, crossed my legs, and rested. I closed my eyes and enjoyed staring not at the haunting bluish haze on the horizon, but instead, the refuge of the darkness. The lively environment around us swelled, and I felt like I could hear everything, from the smallest mosquito to the lumbering grizzly. My thoughts were everywhere but you and the fearful blue.            Unaware of this, you continued to talk. To me. I was frustrated at first, but the more you went on, the better I felt. I could listen to you forever, I realized. Suddenly, I stood with a jolt, profoundly disturbed by this thought. You looked up at me oddly, threw a glance at the horizon, then resumed your story. I shook my head in disbelief.      It wasn't long before the trail twisted downward again, and suddenly became muddy. My boots stuck in the thick, swampy dirt, but I'm proud to say that I never fell. And neither did you, which I found particularly interesting. I knew if I fell, you would come over to help me up, and I couldn't bear such a humiliating thought. I made sure to be extra careful in my movements--which were all but hasty, as I knew full well what a muddy trail meant.      Water. Lurking somewhere nearby, there was water. Large and wet and blue and disgusting. Already, I could see it in my head, the fearful brawn of our destination's liquidy shore. I tensed at the thought of being near it, touching it even. Anytime I was around it, I imagined my own death.  I could see it so clearly in my mind. Even if I wanted to, I could never leave, never feel. It would saturate my clothes and my body, and I would collapse, submerged in the deathly, cold, overpowering heaviness, its icy splashes trapping me under its crushing weight. Dark and heavy blues, then blacks, then white.      I grew pale, and slowly breathed outward, trying to calm myself out of the frantic terror building in my chest. The mystery and danger which the water contained was overwhelming to me, and each step we took brought us that much closer.      I looked over at you, trying to read you again. You were so simply focused on pulling your boot from another mud hole. I couldn't see your face. You didn't seem the least bit bothered.      I clenched my teeth, bit my lip, and looked upward. It wouldn't be long. I knew we were close...           It still wasn't what I wanted.       Up ahead, some fir trees formed a small wall, and the trail deposited there. They were large and full and green, and actually quite welcoming. But I slowed down, and took a long drink from my water bottle. I couldn't be fooled.      And somehow, neither could you.      I'd hardly let go of my water bottle when you firmly grasped my hand in yours. I pulled away. You didn't let go. Stunned, I looked up at you with irritated confusion. You just smiled.     Now the hand-holding I might not have minded so much, on any other given day. It may not have been the most intelligent move on a hike alone with a stranger, but here, with eminent danger close by, I was in no state to be played with.     You didn't let go.     I started to panic. I jerked a little harder, and shook out of my pack. I noticed yours had been laid safely beside the fir trees. You must have taken it off when I wasn't looking. I didn't think much of it, until I saw how close we were. To the water's edge.     It was in your eyes. You were going in, and I was going with you.     My eyes widened and my stomach dropped. I threw myself backwards. I did all but insist you let go of me. Maybe I was ready to be closer to you, just maybe. And perhaps I was ready to admit that. But this, this was impossible for me. There was no way I was going into that water. I buried my boots in the mud, and locked my knees. You were going to have to pull me through the mud to move me.     But my antics didn't phase you. With your other arm, you reached around my waist and plucked me from my muddy fortress. Now you were carrying me. And now, I freaked.      My heart raced and my breath quickened. I was breathing so fast, it was like I wasn't breathing at all. The lack of oxygen made me light-headed and frantic. In the water. With you. In the water. With you. Holding me. In the water. It wasn't what I wanted.       And yet, in your arms, I felt safe. I did. But I didn't want to. I didn't want it.      Tears welled up in my eyes as you stood, holding me over the shore, both of us muddy and weary. Every muscle in my body tensed and cramped painfully at the sound of the tide gently lapping at your feet. It washed the mud clean from your boots. You shifted slightly at its sudden touch. I could tell you were tired, but you weren't giving me up. I could feel your pulse in one of your arms as you held me. I forced myself to look down at the water. The rhythm of your heartbeat pounded strongly at my side, and I realized that even submerged in water, it would probably beat the same. Somehow, you'd survive it. Somehow. Probably. I hated to admit it, but it was true.     Less tense now, I relaxed slightly, but started to tremble. And as if you sensed my thought process exactly, you let me slide gently from your grasp to the earthen shore beneath us. Adrenaline still surging in my veins, I shook my head, terrified. Your eyes never left me, as you knelt down, and touched the water. You splashed your hand around on its surface, and the small blue beads clung to your skin. With grace and tenderness, you rose and touched your wet hand to my face.     I closed my eyes and tensed again as I prepared for the fear to pour over me once more. Even the thought of such small droplets touching me, and my face of all places, would be enough to shut me down. My slow and silent death would run in my mind, and that would be the end. I thought of jerking away, turning and running as fast as I could away from this deadly place. With or without you, I wouldn't care.     Except that I did. I did care. And it sickened me thoroughly.     When finally you rested your palm on my cheek, I was unexpectedly soothed by the coolness of your touch. The harsh heat, and all of the sweat and exhaustion that seeped through my pores, amazingly dissipated. It took my breath away. I looked up at you, wholly confused. My gaze fell to the water, then back to you, then back to the water, and once again I trembled.     I looked back at those fir trees, the guardians of the water's edge. I saw my pack and yours, lying abandoned in the dirt. A bluebird touched down atop a large rock.     You let go of my face, and put your hand into mine. My mind exploded with every argument I could conjure, every reason why this was a bad idea.     You pushed. I pulled. I told you we'd sink, but you wanted to swim. You told me how nice it would be, that I shouldn't be afraid. I told you it was dangerous and unpredictable and unruly. Incorrigible. You used words like "rich" and "refreshing." I insisted our journey had been pleasant thus far, but going in would change it. You might have to save me, or the other way around. It was unthinkable. We'd be soaked and sorry. But you couldn't be moved. This is where the trail led, there's no where else it could take us, you said. Many others had journeyed here and lived to tell about it, why shouldn't we? It's the next step that makes sense, and it's beautiful, you remarked.     I was still less than convinced, but my fear was fading fast, faster than I could comprehend. But nothing had changed about the water, I reasoned. Nothing had changed about you, and nothing had changed about me. Or had it? How could this be? Why was all of this happening?      The questions spun another web of fear in my mind, but you blew it away once more with your breezy disposition. Peace. With a sigh and a smile, you let go of my hand and sat down on a stump. You began to undo the laces of your boots. With careful precision, you untied the thick, canvas laces and tugged away at the leather straps on each side. Still caked with mud, they dirtied your hands as you set them aside. Next, you slipped off your socks, folded them neatly, and tucked each one into its respective boot. You maneuvered almost daintily--such specificity in your movements.     I crossed my arms and looked away as you removed your shirt, your phone, watch, wallet and keys. My eyes wandered across the sky to a big white cloud that sat there all alone. The blue of the sky differed from the blue of the water in a way that was somehow more integrous. Or something.     You made your way to the shore once again, this time obviously prepared to go in. Having shed what you needed to, you were ready. The water could take you and cover you and hold you, and you were just perfectly fine with that. I deemed it suicidal.      You looked back at me and smiled. From behind you, the sun hit the surface of the water once more, just like it had when we'd started out hours before. The galactic light, billions of miles away, bounced up and down atop the watery top and created the same blueish sparkles I saw before. Like intangible diamonds, they glimmered and shone, dazzling the entire side of the mountain. Your angular silhouette amid these shiny, cosmic apparitions was inspiring. It stung my eyes and made them water, but I couldn't look away.      Suddenly, the water didn't look so deathly and wet. Like the fir trees we'd passed earlier, it was welcoming, inviting, enchanting. The fingers of the sunlight streaming over the water and through the trees made it majestic and enticing. It was actually enticing. I recalled the coolness of your hand on my face, and the peace with which you walked and moved. Your hand. Your pulse. Your smile.      It was what I wanted.      The cool blue on my face, only everywhere. Envelope me. And you, in the water, sparkling in the sun, drenched and carefree. All of us, every part of me, immersed in buoyant mystery. Instead of crippling,enabling, instead of fearful, free. Light blue. It was nonsensical.        To this day, I don't know how it happened. But some way, somehow, I'm in. Somehow, I'm knee-deep, but breathing. And to my utter shock, surprise, and relief, the water's fine.      So now, you have it. You have my attention.       Hold your breath and take me under. Let's just see. I now know life is possible beneath the sparkling deep.

[czugwrite]

The Slacker

A poem about a boy who was anything but.

look up but please don't look at me

already shifting in my seat

pair comeback eyes with humble guise

i can't remember my reply

_

reading signs

and laughing lines

comparing statures

yours to mine

deal with heels

when dining fine

to keep that confidence in line

_

artist of a humanist

it's written in your skin

brokenhearted

mercy-charted

one day

you'll march back in

_

trees and seas

you homemake these

in breezy spirits

gold mystique

with recent ease

we rest between

firsthand friendship

and loving seize

_

grateful for your careful hand

and praying that i'll understand

the world for all its soiled slate

becries due action unabate

_

discussing life and complex plans

simultaneous boy and man

blue eyes searching

reaching hands

i get it now

i understand

_

_

_

call anytime.