Open Mic Night=Terror

On Monday April 5th I participated in my first Open Mic Night at University of Michigan-Dearborn. It was sponsored by the Writing Center and participating was a portion of our grade. To say I did this against my will would not be too strong a statement to make.

Funny thing is, I actually ended up liking it.

First of all, I like poetry. So I knew I would like that part. I also like performance art, so I knew that I would enjoy watching my classmates and the other speakers as well.

What I didn't expect was that I was gonna like the feeling of, um, exhilaration I got while presenting my own piece.

The poem I chose to do was a tough one for me. I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer when I wrote it and it was raw and emotional and scared. But, because I was scared to speak anyway, I figured it was the perfect time to do the poem. And, I'm happy to say I got thru it without crying, without my voice wavering too much, and with out losing my cool. I considered the whole experience a success.

Would I participate in an Open Mic Night again. I would have say, surprisingly, Yes.

The Video Feedback

For our assignment we had to watch several videos on writing and write our feedback on them.

I watched Ira Glass' video of his appearance in This American Life on how he writes a story. I really liked this piece a lot because I could totally relate to it. I agree that you can have all of the fundamentals of being a good writer, can know the proper language and grammar and sentence structure, etc---but if you don't have a good 'story' all of that is worthless. If you have a good story, one that grabs you and takes hold of you, it is the basis of wonderful things. Granted, any story will be better in the hands of a gifted writer, but the raw materials go a long way regardless.

I also watched Nellie McKay sing her song "Mother Of Pearl". I absolutely adored it. Not only were the lyrics of the song funny they were also very intelligent. Her sweet voice and the ukelele (?) she was playing made it seem like just a light throw-off of a song, but it was very deep and insightful. I liked how she took a serious topic, added her own twists, sense of humor, and style of delivery, and made it her own. She got across a message and her opinion in a fantastic manner.

Chuck-ing it all; a review of Klosterman

Initially, when we were first assigned the book Killing Yourself To Live, I checked over the front and back covers and seemed to really be interested by the blurbs and synopsis I found there. The book seemed quirky and interesting and I looked forward to reading it. It wasn't a bad book to read-it moved along at a nice pace and was very interesting-but I'm not sure I would recommend it. I say this only because I don't think it fulfills what it promises.

Chuck is given the assignment of crossing the country to visit all the scenes where famous musicians have died, usually tragically. It makes you think you are going to go on a great adventure with him and you are going to find out all types of insider information. I was expecting him to describe the scenes and the situations of each rock star's demise with great detail. And he does, sort of, but more than a book about dead musicians, it is a book about Chuck.

During our first review early into the book, I mentioned I thought Chuck was a pompous douchebag. After finishing the book, I stand by my original thoughts on him. I'm not dogging on his writing style, because I do enjoy the way he writes, even if it is a trifle bit scattered and attention deficit disorder-ed. Chuck is an amusing writer, but the book seems more like a 235 page personal ad than a travelogue (which is what I am assuming was what he was attempting to write).

That being said, if this book were billed more as a memoir and I was expecting to read all about Chuck I probably would have enjoyed it more, but the blurbs led me to believe I was going to be reading this great epic about why musicians tend to find great fame in death and in that goal I think Klosterman fell flat. I know more about his drug habits and the fact he likes gravy and is incapable of any real relationships than I do about the motives or emotions surrounding a slew of musical deaths.

Killing Yourself To Live

Chuck Klosterman is obviously very obsessed with death (heck, his whole book is a paean to death) but one part of the assigned section I found especially interesting was his comparing dying in a plane crash versus dying in a car crash. I hate to admit that's something I have actually thought about myself a few times. Granted, dying doesn't appeal to me at all, and dying in a violent or tragic way even less so, but it seems as if a car crash would be over so quickly you wouldn't have time to form any rational thought on what was happening to you. It would be as quick as it could be.
A plane crash on the other hand is quick, but it still leaves enough time for abject terror. You would know what was happening to you for a long enough period of time to have clear thoughts about it, and enough time to work up a healthy dose of fear. Although I hope to never die at all (haha) if I have to, I definitely don't want it to be in a plane crash. And, if for whatever reason that is the way I am destined to die, I hope that I have the guts of the passengers of the plane that crashed into the farm in Pennsylvania on September 11th. Let's Roll. I want my legacy to be one of bravery, even in the face of terror.

Being 20, Twenty years later

When I was 21, my twin daughters were born. Gone, immediately, was the life I had known and instantly I became the entire universe for two tiny creatures. To say I was unprepared was the understatement of the year. And even though everything I had planned to do and to be and everything I wanted suddenly took a backseat to their needs, I wouldn't change having them in my life for anything in the world. They taught me patience, and humility, and showed me that I possessed a strength I never knew existed. They are also the walking-talking-living-breathing definition of love.

I read somewhere once (can't remember where or I would definitely give proper attribution) that having a child is like having a portion of your heart walking around outside your body and you are powerless to protect it. That is a pretty apt description because, try as you might to make life better for your kids than you had it yourself, you will never live up to everything they need. You will also never live up to all of the expectations of being a parent you thought were important.

I dreaded the day my daughters turned 18. Dreaded even more the day they turned 21. For more than half of my life, being a mom was all I knew; all I thought I was good at. I thought that when they didn't need me to 'mother' anymore, I would have no definition to my life and would cease to be. I had been Amy the mom for so long I forgot how to be Amy the person. Well, I truly couldn't have been more wrong. First of all, you never finish being a mom. Never. They might not need me in the same ways anymore, but they will always need me---if only to be their North Star to orient them as they make their way thru life. Secondly, having adult children when you are still young enough to appreciate it gives you a chance to experience the life you missed when they were babies. And that is what I am doing now. I am having the 20's I never had when I was 20. The best part of all is that they get to be a part of it with me. We do homework together, discuss classes, go shopping and occasionally have even been to the bar together to do karaoke or otherwise. I will never consider myself their 'friend' only (like Lindsey Lohan's and Paris Hilton's mothers seem to do). I will always be Mom first, and foremost, but I enjoy having these new experiences with them as something like a friend. A friend to the tenth power, as it were.

They are my legacy and my love.

Post Secret

I've been reading Post Secret on and off for a few years now. I have to admit it makes me equal parts sad and fascinated---quite the collection of humanity within its pages (or screens, whatever).
I think its popularity lies in two areas. One-it does give outlet to those who think they have none; a voice to the silent. Two-it gives opportunity for people to enjoy lots of Schadenfreude in one convenient little package. Schadenfreude is a German word that is loosely translated as "taking joy in the misfortune of others" and I do believe that some people read Post Secret just for this reason; that when you see other people's lives as more miserable than your own you feel better by comparison. That is the same reason people love to watch those video shows of other people getting hurt. They are neat and sanitized ways to act on basest instincts without any repercussions.
I am quite sure that some of the postcards sent in to Post Secret are fabricated and despite all of the deeply moving and sad things I've read on that website, the disingenuousness that would lead someone to make up a 'secret' makes me saddest of all. That someone would be so starved for 'celebrity' that they would make up something (even something that was going to be posted anonymously) just to get their own warped fifteen minutes of fame is just a side effect of our celebrity driven culture.

The Elegy

This is the poem I chose to do quite a bit of re-work on. I tried to use as much imagery as I could while still keeping the theme and feeling I was trying to convey. Still, all these years later, remembering this night brings me to tears.

Martha's Elegy

Hands. Hands like a roadmap of your life.
Lines. And veins. And a scar or two,
illustrating your journey.
Hands that knew the world, knew it well
long before I entered it.
Hands that knew hard work
and toil
and love.
Hands poised over a pot of something wonderful,
a bit of this-a pinch of that
until
it became much more than the sum of its parts.
Hands swiftly moving, flying, thru yarn and hook,
twisting and winding up something to keep me warm,
a warmth of substance out of a bit of nothing.
Hands gentle, upon my brow.
Soothing. Calming. Easing. The tears of childhood,
the angst of adolescence,
the turmoil of life beyond.
I held your hand that night,
your last night,
and rubbed my thumb across your skin,
feeling the life still there even as it slowly ebbed away.
The soft fragile beat
of a heart that knew the world.
That knew me.
A heart that sustained me when my own would not.
And I saw your hands later
when they didn't even look like yours anymore.
Painted. And powdered. And still.
So still-
A stillness they never had in life;
and I will always be ashamed to say
that is when I was afraid to take your hand.
Because it no longer belonged to you.
Because what had animated you was gone.
And now my hands clasped together.
In pain.

The Sort-Of Sonnet

I attempted to write a sonnet. A sonnet is a 14 line poem written in iambic pentameter with an ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG rhyming structure. I say attempted to write it because although I have the correct number of syllables (the pentameter part of iambic pentameter), the stress/unstress iambic portion is what is keeping this from being a true sonnet. So, I'm calling it sort-of sonnet. I'm still happy with the message.
I didn't change too much from the original form of this poem, just some cosmetic touches here and there. I really like what is says, and the way it says it. I also hid a secret message within the poem, so I had very little leeway in changing the words too much. I am re-working my elegy and I will be posting that later.

Verdadero is the Spanish word for true. Aqui means here.

Verdadero

Digits and data are waltzing thru space,

Aligning themselves into something wise.

Void of emotion; I can't see your face.

I would say more if you could read my eyes.

Desire, elusive-things I can't know,

Conversation becomes our way to dance.

Honesty isn't a thing I can show,

And until later, there won't be a chance.

Rhetoric: with words-we spar-we flirt, we

Dodge around what is unbidden to say.

Astounding, the emotion in QWERTY

When it is simply the light of my day.

Aqui, I am. The truth is stronger stuff.

Yearning. And longing. For now, is enough.

The Object Poem

For this week's assignment we had to choose an object or picture that meant something to us and write a poem about it, working details into the poem if we could. I wrote about the Ghostlight.
The Ghostlight is a theatre staple. It is nothing more than a lightbulb, uncovered, on a tall lampstand. It stays plugged in and on the stage all night long, and whenever the stage isn't being used.
There are two reasons for the Ghostlight. The first, and truest reason, is that theatres tend to be windowless and very, very dark so a lamp on the stage, close to the orchestra pit, helps keep unsuspecting walkers from falling in and hurting themselves. The traditional theatre-nerd reason, however, is a bit more colourful. It is that every single theatre houses ghosts (ie: Phantom of the Opera) and the ghostlight is a way to beckon them homeward. Either way, it is something very near and dear to my heart.
The theatre I am involved in is called Stagecrafters at the Baldwin Theatre in Royal Oak and we have had paranormal experts do measurements of spirits and we are on the Michigan Registry of Haunted Places. Makes for a fun place to hang out. We all have our stories of our contact with the 'ghosts'.

Ghostlight

Are you there to protect

or beckon

glowing orb in the distance

hovering-entrancing

aloft.

Every theatre has one

perched

at the edge of the pit--

seems appropriate somehow

the pit is where the

music

comes from, but also

where spirits do dwell

ghosts

of strange lives and bad reviews

impetuous actions that taste

bitter

on the tongue

and of love affairs too torrid

to last.

hovering-entrancing

aloft.

In the distance

from where I sit in the last row

darkened theatre,

silent all around me,

enveloping me with

temperature fluctuations

and

a sense of fear, and yet

the ghostlight never wavers

I feel safe in its

sickly glow; yellow

the colour of

cowardice.

And yet, it stands there

all alone

in the dim.

Protecting. Or beckoning

the spirits beyond.

hovering-entrancing

aloft.

Gargoyles curled around the balcony;

nymphs in plaster

and

me.

Center row now, seat K106 and

you

beside me-in K105

hands clasped yet

silent, listening

to the sound beyond that of our heartbeats

silence

a silence so loud

so loud it fills my ears

and I know
your heart is

hovering-entrancing

aloft

and out of reach

to me.

The Haiku Project

As a disclaimer, I have to admit I am a haiku nerd. I love them, love how they can so concisely express entire stories and feelings in such a compact package. I love how you really have to think about what you are trying to say and chose your words carefully so they express your meaning exactly yet also allow for private interpretation. I'm currently in the process of writing a novel and I am having one of my minor characters speak in nothing but haiku. It has been a fun exercise in word usage for me. (obviously my life must be pretty boring if word exercises are considered fun, eh?)

Although I know traditional Japanese haiku are usually about nature, I have been writing them about everything and anything. Somehow it seems to put a sense of order into an otherwise chaotic life.

Here are the ones I wrote in class today:

Unload my heart in
seventeen syllable bursts
written just for you.

Fresh, fallen, crisp, cold-
snowflakes dance down from above
and melt into earth

Swiftly, downward, fly
a dizzying path of white.
Exhiliration

Cinnamon scented;
your heartbeat beneath my cheek.
Electric slumber.

Denim. Cotton. Gone
Together now, we combust.
Were the ghosts watching?

Reflections on a Poem

The first poem I read was entitled "For Freckle Faced Gerald" by Etheridge Knight. The poem was raw; with language as well as imagery. It was written in free verse, which seems to be somewhat ironic especially when you consider the fact the author was a prison inmate. It tells the story of two young inmates; Rufus who is tough and hard and doesn't seem to make it past his 21st birthday (although this is a bit unclear from the poem, that is the impression I get), the other is Gerald, a freckle faced 16 year old who is sentenced to prison and is truly so innocent he has no idea what he is in store for. One of my favorite lines is "sixteen years hadn't even done a good job on his voice". This is letting the reader know he is so young, and so naive that his voice hadn't even finished changing yet, that it still had the glow of youth to it. I surprised me how much beauty I found in a poem this raw-that truth and beauty can be found in any situation you find yourself in, and that poetry is a means to express that beauty. Although I don't know for sure, I would assume that Etheridge Knight didn't begin writing poetry until after he was incarcerated and that is was something that kept him sane during his time in prison.


The second poem was "Dear Mr. Merrill" by Moira Egan. This was a poem that followed a more classic rhyming structure but surprisingly I didn't like it near as much as the first poem. It speaks of the author's love of a marble statue because of its beauty and perfection and her comparison to being in love with an actual student of hers, although she is careful to point out that nothing physical ever happened between them. It speaks of her daydreams and fantasies--first with the statue and secondly with the student. I did like her imagery at the end of the poem, however. She discusses how the strong beauty of Hermes needs to be encased in marble to protect people from it's strength. She says "wildest things require strongest cages" and compares the steel bars that enclose a panther with the bitter rind that encloses the pomegranate seeds (pomegranates were seen in ancient times as being the food of the underworld). She ends with "love held tight in a sonnet" with is a line I really enjoyed, having attempted to write a sonnet or two myself. A sonnet has a very difficult rhyming and rhythm structure and since most sonnets tend to be about love, the fact that the strong dangerous emotion is held tight within a difficult poem made me chuckle a bit.



For my third poem I chose "Autobiography" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
He is the same author who wrote the poem about the Chagall painting we read in class. I really liked this poem. It was long-very long-but as an autobiography of someone born in 1919, it had a lot to encompass within its verse. The length and breadth of the poem is also a hallmark of the Beat Generation of writers and Ferlinghetti belongs to that group. Not only did I like the structure of the poem, more like a list of statements that someone was making that still sounded rhythmic and poetic, I liked all of the literary references he lumped into his poem. He discusses the classical American literary character of Tom Sawyer, mentions the Greek god Icarus who lost his wax wings when he got too egotistical and flew to close to the sun, he speaks of Thoreau's Walden pond, Wolfe's Homeward Angel, and says something about sheaves of grass, which make me think of Whitman. He discusses every part of his life, but there are also references in there that have to be a product of his imagination because I don't think logistically he would have been able to be in all of the places he mentions. My favorite line of the poem is "watching the world walk by in its curious shoes". That line just smacks of the incredible imagery of someone watching his life 'flash before his eyes' and how he is marveling at all he has seen. I'm glad I picked this poem.


For my last poem, I went with a classic. Shakespeare. Can't do wrong there I thought, so I read his "It was a Lover and His Lass." Truthfully, although I am definitely a Shakespeare fan, I was not impressed. The entire poem seemed like something a schoolchild could write. Lame sounding rhymes, a sing-songy 'hey ho nonino' and a very simple structure. It was nothing special to me. Although I agree with the universally held opinion that Shakespeare is the greatest writer in the English language, judging by this poem alone, I would say he cheated to get that title.

This painting is called Sunday Afternoon at La Grande Jatte. It is by the French painter Georges Seurat. There are many reasons why this painting has always been a particular favorite of mine, and one that inspires me. I love impressionism, and this painting is a great example of it. Impressionism is basically a whole bunch of teeny tiny dots and splashes of painting that someone come together to make an image. It reminds me a line from the movie Clueless, where the character Cher describes impressionism as looking really good from far away but up close it is just a big old mess. That label fits life so perfectly---especially when we are comparing our own lives to someone else's. Everything looks great from a distance, but when you get right up close and personal, you can start to see the flaws, the cracks, the things that make something imperfect.
Another reason I love this painting is that it is a centerpiece of a great scene in the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off, one of my favorite non-serious movies. The whole art institute scene in the movie particularly inspires me, from the Seurat painting, to the accompanying music by Dream Academy, to the fact that the mood of the scene transports me instantly to that time period in my life and I re-live it all. When I was in Chicago recently I was able to see this painting up close and personal and I took a whole slew of every increasingly close-ups of the painting, mimic-ing the scene John Hughes did in the film. Art brought to life.

I am unabashedly a community theatre nerd. Love it. Love the process of script to stage, the ambience and grandeur of the event, even the smell of the old 1920's theatre my community theatre troupe is fortunate enough to play at.
I am currently working as the producer for The Full Monty. I've done at least 60 shows over the past 10 years and this has to be the show that will stay with me the longest--the one I truly don't want to end. Great show, great singing, great story, funny as hell, and undoubtedly the best cast and crew I have ever had the pleasure to work with.
The picture above illustrates the beginning of a little bit of theatre magic. That is a huge sign we manufactured that is wired with hundreds and hundreds of lightbulbs. Ten or twelve of us spent about an hour screwing those lightbulbs into that sign, and it was a very important job. Those lightbulbs-that blind the audience at a key moment-are all that separate our theatre troupe from getting a citation for public indecency instead of just being a little bit naughty. Fool the eye. That's all it really is.

Mer-maid in Manhattan
The continuation of a fairy tale

told from Eric's point of view

In retrospect, the sushi restaurant had probably been a bad idea. Not probably but definitely, if Ariel's shrieks of "murderers" were any indication. And just when I thought things had been getting better for her. I guess I was wrong.

We had moved here, to New York, after our little debacle with Ursula the Sea Witch back home. Originally I had thought it was just going to be for a vacation, but Ariel's father King Triton (ruler of the Mer-people and all of that) had been gracious enough to 'give up' his daughter permanently to life as a human and he knew that if she remained in my kingdom that close to the sea she grew up in eventually her longing to go back to the sea would overtake her and she might grow to resent me. Triton always wanted what was best for his daughter, and in this case he felt that marriage to me was best, so he suggested we move somewhere busy and boisterous to keep her occupied and take her mind off of all she was missing beneath the waves. And that explained how we ended up here, in Manhattan.

I had abdicated my throne to my younger brother, Ariel had gotten a recording contract with Geffen Records and our 25th floor penthouse waterside apartment now served as our castle. Life was going well---that is, it was going well until my new boss decided to treat Ariel and I to dinner that evening. Manhattan's finest sushi. It all got weird after that

I was standing at one of our floor to ceiling windows, forehead pressed against the glass, watching the rain pour down onto the dark city while Ariel slept in the next room. Her shrieks had been so loud in the restaurant earlier, and nothing would stop them, so I had to resort to some Valium to calm her down. Of course I'd forgotten her body chemistry was not quite completely human and the dosage may have been a bit off. I was guessing she'd probably sleep for the next 20-25 hours. This gave me plenty of time to think.

I stared down at the dark water below me, mentally calling to Triton, asking for help-for what I should do. I loved Ariel so much I just wanted her happiness but I was beginning to think she had given up too much to be with me. I was beginning to think I might not be worth it.

"Triton, help me," I thought, still staring into the darkness. I was so engrossed I failed to notice the droplets that had been running down the window were moving together,coagulating, becoming a larger and larger drop of water until it took on actual form and turned into Triton himself. I jumped backwards, shocked. I'm not sure why magic like this surprised me anymore, but every so often I was still shaken.

"Having trouble my boy," Triton boomed, his voice swirling into the wind of the storm outside.

I went to open the door wall to let him inside but he shook his head vehemently, lightning crashing as he did so. "I'm a little bit wet right now, "he boomed again, "I can just stay out here while we talk."

"Aren't you worried someone might see?" I was amazingly calm. I was talking to the watery form of my father-in-law, who just happened to be a mer-man, and the only thing I was currently worried about was whether or not my neighbors might see as they gazed out their own windows.

"Only you can see me. You summoned me and here I am, for you alone."

"I summoned you? What? When did I do that?" I remembered mentally asking for help, but I hardly would have considered that a summons.

"You only ever have to think of me and you know I'll be here to help. Didn't you read the rules?" I mentally chastised myself. I was still rusty at the rules. When Ariel and I had gotten married I was given the manual "How to Live with a Magical Creature" but I had only read half of it before life sidetracked me. I now see I probably should have studied it a little bit better. I wonder what other surprises might be in that book?

"So, my son, what can I do to help?" Triton continued. I must say, despite his storm-like appearance, his calm demeanor comforted me.

"It's Ariel. I'm worried about her. I'm not sure I'm the one that can make her happy. There is nowhere we can go that won't remind her of her old life and the fact that so many humans eat fish just bothers her so much." I winced at that last part. I had always loved salmon, loved lobster, loved all seafood. Giving it up had been worth it for Ariel, but occasionally the smell of fish and chips in the air still made my mouth ache for the salty briney-ness. All I had to do was remember the moment love opened my ears and all of the sea creatures talked to me and I could push aside my desire for crab cakes faster than you could imagine.

Triton smiled, "Oh Eric, don't be so certain you aren't just what she needs. It will take a bit of time until she is completely accustomed to your life, but with you is exactly where she belongs."

"I wish I had your certainty."

"Just believe, Eric. It will be all right." And then he disappeared. Well, dissolved is more like it, the water that formed his body falling in a huge splash into the river below. His words rang in the air after him, "Read the book."

I immediately went off in search of my manual. I looked everywhere; first the normal places like one of our many bookcases, then slightly less normal places like under the beds or in the nightstands. It wasn't until I had stooped to searching the fridge for it that I got frustrated. "Where is that stupid book?" ran thru my mind. There was an intense whistling sound and before I knew it, the book flew thru the air into my hand with a resounding smack, knocking me off balance. I grimaced, shaking the pain from my hand, but I was happy too. This was the second time I had simply formed a question in my mind and had immediate physical results. I was gonna have to put this to the test.

I found a space in a comfortable chair and opened the book to where I had left off. "Chocolate chip cookies sure sound good, " I thought and within an instant there was a plate of still warm Toll House Cookies waiting for me. "Some milk would be nice." The thought was still in the air as a glass appeared next to the plate. I smiled again. I could get used to this.

I read all thru the night, while Ariel still slept. When I got a little chilly a blanket was around my shoulders before the thought could complete itself in my head. When the sun began to peek thru the clouds, a hot cup of coffee appeared on the table beside me. Any small thing I wished for seemed to happen. Chapter 14 of the book had explained that phenomenon to me. Too bad I been given that knowledge earlier. It would have made moving all our belongings up 25 floors quite a bit easier.

At around 9am I finished the book, reaching the last lines and closing the cover hesitantly. I had certainly been surprised by what I had read-that a marriage between a magical creature and a mortal would never be completely true if it was the magical creature that changed;that the mortal would have to change for the love to last. So Ariel and I could be together---I would just have to become a mer-man for that to work. It was that last part that would take some doing. I would have to throw myself into a body of water, drown, and then be resuscitated by my true love. I wasn't afraid of doing it--I would do anything for Ariel--but now I was just anxious for her to wake up. The sooner I could be a mer-man, the sooner our life together could be more smooth.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up," I was trying the magic of my thoughts again and to my surprise, they worked. I knew she was awake when I heard the sweet sound of her singing in the other room.

"Ariel, honey, could you come here please?" I called to her as I moved towards the window, sliding the door wall open slowly. I heard her sigh and stretch and wakefulness crept back into her mind. "Ariel?" I called again.

"Coming honey," her voice was musical and magical to me. She entered the room, looking just as beautiful as she always did. Although I was still a bit afraid this might work, I knew I would do anything for her.

"Ariel, you know I love you, right?" She nodded, her face radiant. "So I need to do something for you. I finished the book last night," Her face got worried then. She had to know what was in the book. She had to know what I intended.

"Eric. . ." her voice was tremulous, "don't" But before her words completely left her mouth I was out the window, aiming my perfect swan dive into the river below. I was picking up speed, racing quickly toward the black water and just before I hit the rapids a watery hand pulled me back. Triton.

"Wa-aaa-what. . ." I was out of breath and surprised at the fact I was being hauled back up into my apartment by the watery apparition of Triton. "What are you doing?" I sputtered. "I have to do this. You know that. You told me to read the book."

His voice boomed, "And so you did son. And so you did. It was no more than a test to see how much you loved my daughter, how far you would go to protect her, to make her happy. You have made the ultimate sacrifice for her and for that, you will both be allowed to spend time in whatever guise you desire, whether humans or mer-people. And nothing will bother the two of you again."

I was in shock, as was the smiling and crying Ariel who was now in my arms. It had only been a test. Happily ever after was finally truly going to happen to us.

The End.

My Favorite Fairy Tale

The Fairy Tale I have always had a soft spot in my heart for is Beauty and The Beast. It has all of the traditional warm and fuzzy feel-good elements of most fairy tales but a few little twists that put it above the rest, in my opinion anyway.

Surprisingly, I even appreciate and enjoy the Disney adaptation more than the original classic versions and that is usually not the case at all, as Disney tends to take some strange creative license with the stories they adapt.

One of my favorite elements of the story is that, unlike most fairy tales, physical beauty is irrelevant. True, the heroine's name is Belle which is French for beauty, and she is beautiful, but she is a much more practical and pragmatic character, one to whom beauty doesn't matter. She lives with her father, simply, and takes joy in simple things such as nature, animals, spending time with her family and, in the Disney version, reading. She doesn't fuss over her appearance and, in turn, she is able to see past the appearances of others to find true treasure within. She is also able to recognize that outer beauty can also be a mask for ugliness of personality, like her 'suitor' Avenant in the original story (the character was renamed Gaston in the Disney version).

I am especially drawn to Belle's selflessness. To spare her father a life of imprisonment she willingly takes his place in the castle of The Beast. Her life in her cottage might not have been rich, and living in the Beast's castle she may have had the opportunity to experience luxuries she wouldn't have otherwise, but she gives up her freedom in order for her father to be safe and free. That freedom is worth more than any physical luxuries could be. She thinks more of others than she does of herself.

I also really enjoyed the fact that the Beast, too, learns a lesson in this story. He realizes that he needs to also learn to search for beauty within and not to be swayed by simple outward physical beauty because it was his initial disability to do so that caused him to be put under the magic spell and transformed into a Beast in the first place.

The reader in me also loves the idea of rooms and rooms full of books and an unlimited time in order which to read them, but that element is simply a Disney creation and really can't be considered when discussing the fairy tale as a whole.


photo courtesy of www.stagecrafters.org, website of Stagecrafters at the Baldwin Theatre Royal Oak Michigan, where Disney's version of Beauty and The Beast was performed live on stage in May 2006.

Me. Or thereabouts

My name is Amy. I called my blog Wandering Amy-lessly, because that is how I feel sometimes. My mind gets away from me, wanders to all the wonderful places I would like to be, and then manages to find its way back into my skull occasionally. My own private mental vacations I guess.

I have a full-time job in telecommunications, a part-time job in retail, a hobby/passion in community theatre that sometimes seems like another full-time job in and of itself, and occasionally I like to actually interact with the people that share my house and manage to do a little bit of housework/upkeep/sleeping. You know, important stuff like that.

I am just a few credits shy of being a junior. My goal was to be a communications major, but since I am unable to complete that degree by going to school only at night (and that is all my schedule will allow) I am technically a liberal studies major with a concentration in communications/mass media. My goal, once upon a time, was to go to law school and become a first class attorney. My goal now is simply to finish college before my kids do. That part isn't looking very likely. But I soldier on.

I do love to write and although I don't think I'm very good at it I do it a lot. I'm currently in a haiku phase, where I turn most every thought I am having into a haiku in my head. Lame, yes. Nerdy, indeed. But it helps to make boring work meetings a little more fun.

I am also in the process of writing a novel and I took this class mostly to give me the impetus I need to get it finished. I've given myself a deadline of 12-31-10 to have my first draft completely written. I work best under pressure, so I think a deadline is exactly what I need. My novel is set in Detroit and I've had a lot of fun visiting various areas around our city, seeing the local sites for book research. The Heidelberg Project is a particular favorite and I'd encourage everyone to check it out here http://www.heidelberg.org/

Thanks for reading. That is, if you are.