Reflective Blog

1. What are your plans as a writer (how do you expect to use writing in your future)?

I would like to polish my poetry and start sending it out there for publication. I am also thinking about doing writing workshops and creative writing classes.

2. Describe any changes in your writing style?

I changed my usage of grammar because I am now more conscious of the proper way in which to use it in an effective way to make the sentence strong. This has helped me get my point across without the use of big words and long, run-on sentences. It has also helped me structure my sentences correctly and more fluidly.

I have also found a way to shorten my paragraphs in order to make them more punchy and get my point through. This, in tandem with being more fluid in my structure, has help dramatically prove my writing.

I also waned the excessive use of literary device to get my point across. As a poet I believed this was the way to show the reader your feelings and meaning yet it is different in all forms of writing styles so I am able to identify when it is correct to use it, and not.

I am also able to reread my work and see if something does not fit just from the phonetic rhythm. Then, I can go back and fix it so it flows better.

3. Describe any changes in your writing process?

I have a difficult time in my writing process. First-off, i put an exorbitant amount of pressure on myself to produce thus stunting myself in the process like a deer in headlights. If I were to just say what I were already thinking on the paper without the added pressure of words, syntax, literary device, grammar, grades, spelling and perfection; then I would be able to get my point across in no time. This does not happen so I end up with anxiety and an extension, if I am lucky.

Secondly, I never know what my concept fully is before I write and this makes the writing process more of a challenge for me because I am almost journal writing at the time. Then, when I go back half of my work is garbage and needs to be discarded and rewritten.

One very frustrating aspect of my writing process is that I write in illusion of the concept and this ties in to the former paragraph. This leads me to a crazed-state because then I have the potential of having to re-write my entire essay all over again to be more direct.

4. Describe any changes in your attitude toward/interest in/understanding of writing in general, and CNF in particular.

CNF made me more frustrated with writing as it was a mega challenge for me. I am a poet in natural talent and these two forms of writing oppose each other in many ways. Longer forms of writing are harder for me as it is more of a commitment of time, concept and story and I felt lost at inept at making these commitments.

It made me question my ability as a writer because I could not master the skill as much as I had hoped for myself. I even questioned whether I wanted to use my skills in a future profession anymore.

5. What have you learned about yourself as a writer?

I have learned about how metaphoric I am in my writing and how and when to use it. Now I know when my use of big language is too over-the-top and will underscore the meaning of my work.

I have learned of the two voices I tend to use in my writing and the stream-of-consciousness that polarizes the two voices. I have a dualism in my writing and i found that to be interesting.

Most important lesson for me was learning of the style in which I tackle writing a story. This lesson will hopefully help me alter my writing process so as to allow the flow of my writing as opposed to the pressure of perfection.

Also, it takes me awhile to realize what I want to say as I am a process writer/thinker. I work things out slowly sometimes through writing as it is a catharsis for me. This is why it takes me time to have a Eureka moment.

6. What features of your writing do you feel are most important for you to work on?

I feel I have a lot to work on in terms of my writing. I want to work of my process most specifically so as to make it run smoother for me. If I am able to make the process more fluid and less pressured, then I will be able to produce more frequently and effective work.

I want to learn how to use my metaphoric style yet combine it with some direct language. I also want to work on saying less with more. I am going to work on brainstorming so as to come to the core of my concept before writing. This would make the writing process a lot easier for me.

Publication Venue Selection!

Publication: Ecotone

Voice: Narrative, Literary, Journalistic

Audience: Ecotone caters to people who tend to roam the realms of the environment within themselves and around them and take notice of the little things in these realms. It is for those that seek the microcosm as well as the macrocosm that is the universe.

Purpose: To bring the natural world and enliven it through words. Make the audience more aware of our daily worlds and senses surrounding us in the natural world.

Subject Matter: The environment, including human, animal, natural and the connection between the worlds.

Submissions and Editor's Request: Submission and Reading times done between Aug 15-April 15. Memoir and Novel works are "self-contained" or as I saw, single spaced. Only one submission per genre and may submit same works to other magazines yet must contact Ecotone if accepted. No electronic submissions. Must send full name, address, and address to the editor: David Gessner; and include a S.A.S.E if you want a response from them which will come within three months. Submissions must be done in the Chicago Manual of Style.

Creative Writing Department
University of North Carolina Wilmington
601 South College Road
Wilmingtom, NC 28403-3297

NO PAY and No Charge!!
Website: info@ecotonejournal.com

Theme/Style/characteristics of work they want: "Ecotone is always looking for dynamic, original and boundary-breaking...borders, boundaries, the natural world, and the human world."

Examples of Other Essays: I read from Ecotone Volume I Number 2, the story: "Whole Hog" by Tenaya Darlington and the poem Morphology, or the study of morphing by Bob Hicok. Both were the study of people. The CNF essay was segmented and literary and was the study of a burly meat and potatoes, Americanized in contrast to Naturalistic-Vegan-Hippie type neighbors who dance Sufi style and fast. The poem is an intense study of the self and one's ability to change and the way the environment impedes of helps this. Other stories I wrote had this same self-actualizing, reflective, intimate voice that studies humans and gives some realization to the connections around us. Reg Saner sheds essay "Lions in the Streets" sheds light on the environmental encroachment.

There are two issues a year, usually every six months.

I chose Ecotone because I am a nature-oriented individual who enjoys studying people, the environment, animals and the universe we live in. Two of the CNF essays I wrote pertained to Ecotone's theme so I felt drawn to it thus felt it was perfect for my own "niche".

Learning the Language of the Earth= Essay 3

I was first introduced to the Watchung Reservation when I was fifteen years old by my new high school friend. She took me there as a place to escape from the rejection from the rest of our peers. Somehow these woods came to serve as a playground for the alternative lifestyle we decided to lead away from the normalcy of the forced suburban American dream. It was where she and I could escape the demeaning eyes of the surrounding hubbub, the cackled whispers of pimpled teenagers, the suppressing expectations of others to be a cookie cut out Barbie doll wonder.

At this point while I growing up I needed this kind of place like a toddler needed its parents. Being encapsulated into a suburban whisper squelched my free spirit. I grew up in a place of picket fence perfection; houses lined up in a row with exact precision of space, trees ripped from the ground to build build build, animals forced to flee so far away that they never returned. In my school Caucasian was the majority with a speckle of color or difference found in the crevices. The “different” kids were tormented and pushed from the school because of their dandelion ways. We were outside of their fences and growing around it like ragweed.

I ran to the enigma of the Watchung Reservation as often as I could. It served most of the purposes I needed. The beginning years of our relationship were that of a child’s awe and discovery. Ali and I would bring our mediums for expression in our quilted corduroy backpacks and recreate our surroundings. We would fumble with a blanket and hide in a quiet region of land away from the possibility of people. This allowed our creativity to be wild, free from the world of judgment. We would observe the cadence of the leaves change with each season and gather inspiration from them. We would become the clouds in the sky and listen to the meditative rustling as the wind passed through the trees.

Being home made me feel like I was locked in a Mason jar and stored in a cellar. There was always constant noise of some kind hissing in the background like static; the buzz of a lawnmower, screaming children playing outside, a party across the street, an unruly barking dog. This was maddening next to the proverbial peace of the Reservation’s open space. There was constant intrusion from windows on top of windows-neighborhood nosiness lurking in the corner. I felt eyes glaring and faked flaked smiles chipping off the white painted fences. Whenever I went for a bike ride I was choked from pollution pushed down my throat. I called for my mother in choked sighs.

My relationship became deeper with the woods as I got older. She was always reliable to my thirsty spirit. I could use her and she wouldn’t care. I would stampede through her dirt, lie on her grass, cry in her soil, hug her bark and she would silently comfort me. My family would repeat in their worrisome tones, “You should never go to the reservation alone. There are a lot of crazies out there. Always bring another person with you.” Yet, I felt safer in the woods then anywhere else. I did not fear her; I trusted her. People hurt me more then she did and while I was there her haven would protect me.

As I got older I became more aware of the noise and pollution like a poison that radiated my skull. It gave me pain behind my eyes or made me feel like a disparate child. I felt separate from this world, like an ancient mythological theme in a textbook. Everyday in class we would read about it and shut the book on my life. I wanted to crawl out and relive my buried world. I felt out of place in this metropolitan haven of noise and crowds, pollution and television. I just wanted to run around in the woods like a warrior and live in a modest hut. I wanted a tribal life of relying on the biorhythms of the Earth. I broke and broke and cracked every time I saw pollution and waste and marked trees. I was not of this time or this world.

Her fortress was my escape to solitude. Life outside of the woods was hellish and when I entered her walls it was my time to be of her once again. I did not want to be a part of hustle-bustle, noise and buy. I was earth, air, fire, water. I was not in the chains of society’s labels, driven by the mass to separate and judge. I was carbon. I wanted a freedom to be whatever I wanted, see whatever I wanted, love and live however I wanted. So I laid myself down on the carpet of her leaves and blended into my surroundings; to give to the Earth, to be of the Earth. I was the Earth.

As I got older I began to just go to the woods and drive through the wild curving streets. I would open up my window, turn my music off, stop in the middle of the woods and shut off my headlights. I would just sit in the absolution of darkness and listen to the sounds of emptiness. I would hear my breath wheezing back at me, feel the air touch my body like a lover, and smell the season like a perfume. I would feel my heartbeat in fear of another car crashing at a racing halt into the back of my car. At those moments I wanted to be one with the innocence of the night. I wanted the Earth to take my body and transform it into a floating particle. One night in mid-November I got out of my car in a wind storm. The evening was ominous and the trees were full of wisdom as the blustery winds murmured through them. There were rain speckles hiding my own tears. I was full of woe and needed to become one with the energy of the storm and let it singe my pain away into the freezing air. I roamed in absent-minded sobs around the lake while a full moon guided me deeper into the woods. I treaded and she comforted me like no human could.

The woods have been a shell that has grown around me and I live in her like a hermit crab. If I chose to leave to another home, I will, but this shell has wrapped around my body so tightly that I feel one with it. I left for a little while and I felt like I forgot who I was. I am the Earth, the Earth is me.

Essay 4 suggestions

Edgar gave me an idea to begin my story from the perspective as an adult and reflect to what I know now, as opposed to childhood. I think that might work since I am writing about independent thought from religion and questioning of what was taught rather then belief in what they fed me. So if I write as an adult who is in an adult state of mind and then reflect back and forth it could work nicely.

I was also told to use my imagery since I did mention that in the blog. It was a very vivid memory so I think I will work with the visualization aspect of it to make a descriptive piece.

Essay #4 idea

I am going to write about a profound memory I had as a child that left a spiritual imprint on me. It is extremely vivid and I have not forgotten a single minute detail. This will give me plenty to work with in terms of description and detail.

As for the story, I want to make it about the revelation of one's indepedence and ability to think for yourself. It is in refrence to religion and a child's realization that religion questionable.

Blog #15 In the Open:Empty

All of the places I have formed a connection to in my life are in nature. Some of the other places are family vacation homes or areas. These natural places are special to me because they are an escape from the suburban hubbub that I was forced to live in.

The most important place has been the Watchung Reservation, which is five minutes from my house. I have been visiting it since I was 14, watching the seasons change on my favorite trees. It has been a place for me to express my emotions, release tension, get some exercise, meditate, be with a loved one, and be creative. It is my sacred place.

When I am here no one is there scrutinizing my every move. No one is telling me I need to dress better or act more lady like. I roll around in the dirt there. I talk to the trees and I don't give a hell if anyone stares. It is just nature and me. The same massive rock that always lets me sit on it and write and cry. The same tree that dips into the water and touches the reflection like siamese twins.

I need this place sometimes like I need my mother. It is my solace. I went here one night after a breakup with my long term boyfriend and walked in a blustery fall storm. I cried on the dark trails and wished for the rains and trees to help me disappear. I was not afraid.

New Essay Idea

For my Essay #3 I would like to build off of the blog in which we had to look into something hidden and write about it. I had looked in the basement and found the chest my grandfather made and found a made a connection with the chest and his sickness. I would like to make the theme of the Essay Impermanance and how life is fleeting, just as things are.

Blog 13: Clothing

She hides beneath the same golden yellow Orlando, Florida sweatshirt. Every time I see her she comes in, hair flying around as if she were just in a convertible; her gray hairs saluting me and bowing to the good deed she is about to practice. The sweatshirt has taken on a life of a lover, it coaxes her, reads to her, marinades her in her sorrow. Does it comfort her body in the night while she sleeps? Does she grab it when she returns from work and rub it on her skin like it has been calling her; offering her a new life. She lives in it like it is a home. She has not taken it off in years-- her shield. It is the size of a tent--she hides her body in it. I wonder if she were to cry if I stole it for the night? Does she have a name for it? The yellow wasp, the golden wheat, Rex Butler.

Her shoes are ragged and rough. They are like aching soldiers begging to be buried and claimed dead. What once were solid white lovers, are now decrepit antiques. They most smell when she takes them off and throws them into her closet, her garage, her car. Does she love the smell of her own foot fungus? Does it comfort it?

Her pants are black spandex. They are too big for her; just as the sweatshirt is.
You can barely see her legs move underneath the over-stretched over-sized spandex. She hides; the Golden Wheat, yellow wasp comes 3/4 down her thighs; she hides.

I watch her every week training in the same clothes. I see her aching in her loneliness like a rotting peach. Does her yellow sweatshirt touch her skin enough? I watch her move and laugh in her tent as if no one is watching, as if she is not carrying her home with her. I want to touch her and burn the sweatshirt.

Blog 12: Photograph

This is a polaroid print picture. The light in the photo is amber and gives off a retro hue. We are two girls, not women, but girls. We are standing in the corner of a room with busy wallpaper to our backs. It has blue and white vertical lines that are behind us with a flower lining that circumferences the rest of the room. On the other side of the picture is a sliding glass door.

We both have a sly smile on our faces as if we are up to no good--vixens on the lose. We are also both wearing red and standing close to one another; it seems as if we are one being. She is facing the picture and I am standing sideways. We both have only one arm showing, although my other hand peeks out and is holding an ashtray. Her arm is straight; mine is curved at a 90 degree angle. Her arm is bare; mine is full of bracelets. Her shirt is 3/4 sleeved and v-necked; mine is a tank top, sparkly, and comes above my midsection. Her neck is bare; I have a thick black-studded necklace on.

We both have blonde hair, yet hers is darker. She has hers cut short and pulled back by a thick black headband. Mine is bleached blonde, medium length, and pulled into two pigtails (although you can only see one.) Her head is cocked to the side and she looks fatigued. I am looking straight at the camera and have a devious look on my face.

This is a picture of my best friend and I from 2000. We were at her house at the time, hanging out with some friends as well as random people. We might have been drinking. We were acting very silly and were very young. This was taken at the end of the night by some one who was there and given to us as a gift for inviting them to the party.

Impermanence

This weekend was a difficult. My grandfather is losing his integrity in the hospital after having five strokes over the years. He can't walk, can't speak. Last week may have been the last one. I am losing my concentration.

I am supposed to be studying for a midterm but instead of doing the intended and important, I distract myself with some wandering.

My mother asked me to hang some laundry--which connects to the essay we read--so I am thrown to the dungeon of my house for some laundry time. I took that as an opportunity to search the bottom of the dusty realms of my parents clutter.

I was magnetically attracted to the forlorn and neglected chest that used to inhabit our family room upstairs. I missed it. It now lives in the corner of the musty basement with useless junk atop it: a blue basket full of videos not watched anymore, clothes from the 80's, and a newspaper from 1992. The poor chest; it is sorely neglected, now banished to the Island of Shame or the Outsiders Realm; it yearns affection.

It is not necessarily beautiful, nor does it have personality. It is a plain dark pine box shaped as a rectangle; almost like a child's coffin. My brother used to hide in it during hide and seek. I take all the meaningless junk on top of the chest and scatter it around me in a circle of protection. It is my ritual for I am bringing up remains of the dead.

I am so excited; the smell of decay and rotten centipedes wafts into my nostrils giving off a light-headed yet familiar scent.

The laundry has become an enigma, a nomadic force, an alternative life.

I open the case and I am a child again; slowly becoming thirteen, ten, eight, six.

My mother, my sister, my father, my brother are all folded neatly in this box like a crayola crayons.

I find my parents old records; the ones that I used to spread on the floor with me as a child and learn about music with; Michael Jackson, Santana, The Beatles. I fell in love with Michael Jackson sprawled on his animal fur while he sang Billie Jean to me. I found my brother Ghost Buster's collection and my barbie collection and remembered our fights. My sister had saved all her notebooks from high school. I found dust.

It made me think of life and our impermanence. Prior that chest was living with us in the nexus of our household and was now stuffed in the musty corner of the dirty basement.

This morning my mother told me that my grandfather handcrafted that chest himself. Now it is stuffed in the corner with collected dust and junk atop it. It made me think of life.

On the Essays

I am going to chose my my second essay to chop into because it is much more resolved in the revelations. I feel that I have come to the concept of the story more clearly in this one and I will be able to work into it better then if I were to try to hone the first one.

Secondly, while I was writing this one I was able to come to many conclusions of a very personal and very recent event in my families life. It was almost an unconscious free-flowing draft that allowed me to figure out how I truly felt about the situation yet write it literary.

The essay felt like a resolution to a ghost and that has been haunting the corners of my house. I allowed my mother to read it and she was touched and others who were effected by the situation also wanted to read it. I am hoping to make it better so that other families who go through addiction can read it and feel the understanding and pain as well.

Well...here is to making it the most incredible fantastical best written essay ever!! hahahaaaa

Guidance

I am at standing at the road diverged at two..no three..and I am frozen once again. I am stuck in a foggy frozen bog and I am in need of guidance and pushing pulling. Grrrhhh!!

I am between a couple things and I don't want to be stuck writing a couple drafts that putz out and never solidfy into a piece of brilliant writing. I am leaning towards the secret girlfriend thing yet not sure if I can write it, or what I would focus on. I could focus on my love for her and inability to be with her because of the lack of acceptance from my parents. I could focus on the inability to leave Tim to be with her because her was in the more conformed comfortable realm. I could focus on my fear to be with her.

Maybe help guide me...

Drafts

I find it extrememly hard to write my first essay as I had many blockades, mostly surfacing in my head of course. I had a plethora of topics I wanted to write about but when it came to sticking to just one I was like a kid in a a Bakery- lacking in focus and decisions.

I kept beginning a topic and then throwing it away. I was like the sterotypical writer romanticed in the Hollywood movies, throwing her half written stories in the garbage. My head was spiining from the lack follow through next my bed. I just wanted to have one topic that made me so passionate that I could not stop ranting "The truth". So, there I was putting to much pressure on myself; and there it was.

That defines the problem, the sterotypical scorned writer that I am, I put to much pressure on myself when it is for some form of publication or grading. Instead of just letting it come from flow and autonomous being I am in my head. That is when my worst writing comes out. I am a creative free flow writer and my draft sucks because of the amout of thought I put into it. I was focing on the rhetoric, the concept..blah blah blah.... I was not just being.

So, for my next piece I think I will just write to write and see what comes out and then do the polishing. No headiness, no perfection, no no no!!!

Again I have about ten ideas of what to write about. I was thinking about seriously writing about my recent breakup and how life changing it was but that is too drag for me. So I might right about a very intimate and secretive relationship I had with a women for years. It is personal and I don't want to be judged for writing it but it what has been on my mind. Yep, that's what it's gonna be.

The Silent Spaces

Mimi Schwartz's essay is written about something that is has become and is a raw boil on the head of humanity. When an author chooses to write about this subject they are delving into a dark lake in a hidden cave in Alaska. It is a deeply emotional subject. I always prepare myself before reading Jewish Lit as if it will be a night of engorging myself in a room of Vienna deserts, endlessly.

On that being said, I think the way she chose to write in segments is a brilliant way to exemplify the metamorphosis she is going through in this essay. By breaking up the sections she is showing us the stages she goes through as she learns her lessons. In life we all go through stages of maturity as we develop and move towards death, and come closer to our own "truths". She is doing just this, in conjunction with her father, throughout the story.

A theme that is concurrent with the theme of identity, yet is a potent theme all it's own, is Mimi coming to terms with her heritage. In the first section Schwartz begins as a stereotypical American teenage girl who rebels against her stern old world Jewish father. Yet, as she visits her father's hometown she goes through a process of engulfing in her father's views and families history. As the essay progresses through each section she learns more about her family and their struggles. This gives Schwartz an understanding for her father which takes her need to rebel away.

Schwartz breaks up each section to illustrate specific points of view of the essay. This effect adds layering to the story as well as giving circumference to her themes. It also makes each section separate from the other, so if read alone illustrating the various points of view of the author and story. This gives the CNF piece more power and most be read carefully to be understood in such a way.

On reason Schwartz uses the gaps in between each section in a quiet stage of pause and remembrance. An extensive amount of this essay is about those past. I feel that the gaps are almost a pause to respect and think about what has happened, like the blank monument with no names in the cemetery. Another reason is to separate each section as distinctively different, like grave markers and mementos of time demonstrating what Mimi and her family are going through. Also, as mentioned above, it shows the different themes and perspectives so that when read distinctively the reader can see the different points of view.

In respect Mimi Schwartz piece is subtle yet direct in what it portrays. She uses many literary devices and is comparable to a piece of Literary fiction. In my humble opinion this, to me, would categorize a CNF, as well as enjoyable.

Eureka!

Whilst reading Montaigne, besides finding it to be dense, I also found it to be similar to Lott because of his use of qoutes. Montaigne references history and uses this for his own reflection. For instance he specifically begins with a tale of King Croseus in order to set the stage for what he is trying to put for to his audience. Therefore he is using other writers and points of references to build storyline. This compares to to Lott's more contemporary essay in which he uses block quoatations to make his point. Neither Lott nor Montaigne use plot, storyline, etc. It is purely an essay of an opinion that the author is trying to set forth and they have used validation from other writers to back their points up. Lott's essay is different as it gives more opinion to us and is more extended. Lott does not reference any history nor does he speak in another language. He is cyclic in his essay, thus making his point more round and poignant. I found Montaigne's essay to be have emotional and passionate tones whereas Lott's was strictly educational and opinionated.

Orwell uses more of a storyline in his narrative. He incorporates a plot, theme, setting, perspective, and dramatic plot. He also introduces characters. Orwell forms this true-to-life tale in the form of a short story. This is comparable to Beard's narrative and as well as Kincaid's. Kincaid and Orwell are similar as they are both memories in which the author reflected back on years later, giving it the story-like element. They both have raw emotional undertones yet Kincaid's are more apparent then Orwell. Beard and Orwell are comparable in the narrative is written from the perspective of self acknowledgement of a lesson learned. Yet, all the stories have one thread in common, there is an Aha moment, and that is the reason why the author is writing. They want to immortalize the Eureka they have found to be true and share it with others as well.

32 flavors of Creative Nonfiction

In addition to the simple eloquence that Kincaid uses to express her memories, she also adds texture to her reading. She brings in other characters in which she compares herself to, adding a fictional component to the reflective piece. This also gives vivacity to her memory. She describes each character in depth, from the girl of the finely scented soap to the photographer who smoothed his hair too often. She also uses the senses which enriches the writing and brings me back the moment Kincaid was experiencing. When she speaks of feeling her mother's blood pulse and smelling her skin, I am Kincaid as a child. It is as if she transports me back to the moment. In comparing Kincaid's piece to Beard piece, I find a different richness in each of these woman's memories. Kincaid expresses her memories through experience and sense. She brings you back to what life was like for a child and how they learn the world, and their place. Jo Ann Beard's reflection is more in your face and punctures the mind and heart through her emotional tones and metaphors.
Lott helped bring clarity to me about what Creative Nonfiction is and also gave me some new perspectives on what I already believed. What I found especially useful was the last paragraph on page 274 leading up to the next page. When he speaks of the writing with circumference and reflecting from all angles so as not to be flat it really helped give me perspective. So, I began thinking if I were to reflect on an experience I had as a teenager, yet only with that teenage voice, only with my only preconceived notions on what the experience gave me, then it would not have the air it needed to spark the fire. Also, I really found helpful the point he made about egotism and self-righteousness. As a writer I always believed that consistently writing about the self was self-centered and added nothing to the reader. Yet, now I see differently. I love the quote he uses to back it up by Thoreau from Walden. "A modest truthful man speaks better about himself than anything else, and on that subject his speech is likely to most profitable to his hearers..." That sums it up perfectly for me and takes away my fear of writing about myself. Furthermore, I love how he ends the paragraph, "..if we are rigorous enough, fearless enough, and humble enough to attempt this responsibility..." I am hoping that I can achieve that in my career as a writer.

In Her Own Words

Creative Nonfiction, the essential essence of a person. Categorizing one's own personal experience in emotional vivid landscapes. No fear, no hesitation. Like walking around naked with your inner experiences drawn and painted onto your body. Like opening up your chest and allowing others to inspect it's contents. Like telling the truth with color, articulation, fire, passion. Like being who you really are and not giving a damn what the nay sayers in the world say. All in all it is truth in the already known, coming to terms with the self, and taking off the mask of the Ego. It is living your own life and really living it.

She pretends to breathe into the mic in soft whispers while she subtlty scrapes her teeth on the surface. Her porcelin enamel rips away the anxiety while her eyes smile at the crowd like two butterflies dancing in an Amsterdam garden. They cheer and cheer like starved howling monkies and she feeds them what they want.