Keep my glass full...

I haven't been very active on here lately, but no worries--I'm still kicking around, but my brain has been occupied with things other than bloggity-blogging.

One of which being this particular earworm... so I'm sharing.

If you've managed to avoid being introduced to Sia's song "Chandelier" and the jarring finesse of 10-year-old dancer Maddie Ziegler's performance in the video, well... I'll apologize in advance for enabling.

Seriously. Addicting. I can't simply listen to it in the background on the laptop, I must stare at the video every time it plays... it's that goddamn mesmerizing.

And I love everything about this video--the swells of music, the unconventional majesty of Sia's voice, the identifiable lyrics, the bleak setting, the awkward-yet-graceful movements, the spin of Maddie's platinum wig...

Hypnotic.

Even the petal pink paint and indecipherable scribbles on her hands intrigue more than annoy.

AND HOW DOES SHE NOT HIT THAT COFFEE TABLE?!

Hell, the melodrama of this entire package somehow avoids feeling contrived and functions so seamlessly as a powerful and haunting message of mental instability that I adore it all to itty bitty bits.

I've even watched Sia and Maddie's live performance on The Ellen Show multiple times, too, just to watch Maddie's spellbinding dance from another perspective.

Serious time suckage here, folks. An intervention might be required.

The Transformative Power of Music

There’s a long history of the creative arts being linked—visual artists garnering inspiration from musicians, visual artists moved by poets... music begetting dance, dance begetting poetry, poetry begetting song. A tradition of creative growth, an evolution of inspirational symbiosis that continues forevermore.

(That’s pretty much straight from my first year of creative writing, by the way... feel free to Google it. I’ve basically remembered—and lived—that, along with the internal struggle of killing the baby, which I’m currently living..)

Er...

(Note:  No worries, said baby is figurative—there’s no actual baby killing going on, so don’t call the authorities. The baby is my manuscript, and the entire phrase is a metaphor for embarking on the editing process, so chill.)

Music has always been inspirational for my writing. Not simply lyrics, but musical scores as well. Atmospheres, emotions evoked—it doesn’t always follow a song to the letter, but if it does, it can give me the chills.

Even if only one line applies to my work in progress, I can fluff up a vision all my own; a personal, mental music video that I will relive every chance I hear that melody.

Of course this is equally a blessing and a curse.

The blessing of course being the ease with which I can slide into an emotional atmosphere conducive to the tone of a particular scene, and motivating myself to write.

The flip side of this is the ease with which can slide into an emotional atmosphere conducive to the tone of a particular scene—regardless of situation, be it at the laptop or driving the car—and have reality melt away in the onset of mental immersion, or find my mood affected instantly.

Mr Lannis knows certain songs to avoid, certain artists I gravitate to and therefore shouldn't be on a playlist for a long drive. Others I’ve managed to hide from him, but there are some he knows without a doubt transport me elsewhere.

I think the easiest way to explain the sensation is when a particular piece of music is tied to a something of your past, and whenever you hear it you’re suddenly shifted; you find yourself reliving that moment in time.

In my case it's usually reliving a scene I've written.

Many writers have playlists for particular works. I know I do.

And sometimes I need to remember the basics; to use the tools I have to help bridge the gap I’m living.

Music will get me back in the mindset of my broken manuscript, and hopefully allow me to fix what needs fixing. And I've been putting it off far too long.

I need to let music return me to Jane.

Be Positive.

Or not. It’s your choice, of course.

Lately I’ve noticed a trend in conversations, one that I think is happening in some circles but perhaps not others.

Multiple people around me are voicing how negativity sucks them down, and that hanging out with negative people makes them feel... deflated.

Several people I know have actively chosen to disconnect with particular friends because of continued negativity dragging them down.

I’m sure just about everybody knows what I’m talking about. That acquaintance you bump into in the grocery store (or wherever) and after a few moments of chitchat—which on their part tends to be a giant list of complaints delivered with a defeated sigh—you leave the conversation with lower energy than before you’d seen them.

They’ve figuratively sucked your energy with their negativity. It happens.

And everyone can have their moment when they are that negative energy-sucking person, but the trick is to not always be that person. Bounce.

[Note: I’m not knocking anyone with depression or mental illness, here—being positive isn’t some magical bandaid solution to mental illness. Go. Get help. Please be the hero of your story, not the victim.]

I like to think I’m a pretty positive person.

Sure, I have good days, and sure, I have shitty days—we all do—but what you have to remember is that without a spectrum you have no basis for comparison.

They all can’t be good days—if there weren’t bad days there would be no good days.

Labeling myself a terminal realist means I’m definitely not an optimist—though it’s mistaken for that often, to be sure. Terminal realism isn’t about being so bloody positive that you burp sparkles and piss rainbows (though that would be cool for a short while, it would quickly get old... or so I imagine).

No, it’s about being realistic about life. It's about laughing off the ugly stuff and moving on.

I rant. I rant a lot, everyday, enough to warrant having my own blog (heh). But I hesitate to call it negative.

Rather, I like to think my hair-pulling frustration with the epidemic of stupidity is entertaining to some. Perhaps even amusing. Droll, shall we say?

So it’s not about walking around with a smile plastered on your face and ignoring life’s bumps—by all means, get that frustration out.

It’s the way you do it, though.

Life’s thrown me plenty of shit sandwiches, and I've choked them down. Not always with a smile in the moment, but afterwards. It's the afterwards that matters. It’s not a scar to pity—it’s a story to tell. And if I can’t get someone to snort a laugh while I do the telling, well, I haven’t done my job.

Mind you, being a self-proclaimed storyteller will do that.

Point being: positivity isn’t about never exalting in those bad things. It’s about perspective, perseverance, and recognizing the humour that can be found within any situation.

(Seriously, I wrote a post about my cat dying. To this day I think it’s one of my funniest posts ever. Yes, I’m twisted.)

Anyhow. It’s been a while since I’ve done a Lesson from Pinterest, so I figured I’d reflect on positivity.

Positive minds live positive lives.

When you’re actively trying to be positive, it changes your brain. Positive begets positive. The same goes for negativity, too, which is the danger of being in a slump for too long—it’s difficult to dig out of it.

Like anything, exercising positivity takes practice. Finding the—admittedly nuanced— humour in the shitstorm life throws at you is a twisted sort of talent, but I like to think it’s attainable by everyone.

A lot of it is just realizing that the universe has a sick sense of irony, and graciously letting it go.

Yes, let it go...

Sing With Me

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on August 6th, 2011.]

Parenting truth: kids are great at showing the world how much you suck as a parent — regardless of actual suckage — because everything and anything can be taken out of context and will always look way worse than it really is.

The level of apparent atrocity will directly relate to the level of innocence behind an act. In other words: the more innocent an act, the more horrible it will outwardly appear.

Case in point: music.

One of our boys’ favourite activities is to sing lyrics of songs they love, occasionally shouting them at the top of their lungs.

Usually in public, of course.

A slightly different version of this game is to sing overtop of each other, each attempting to correct the other’s goofy lyrics... and this amuses them. Immensely.

Music as play is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for melody- and wordplay, and anything creative is a good thing in my books, but...

It’s not just any music.

Oh no, they don’t choose anything adorable and childish... no She’ll be Coming ’Round the Mountain, or Skinnamarink for them... oh, no, they wait (in ambush) until we’re eight carts deep in the not-so-express Walmart lineup, and then start to hum, then sing Raise Your Glass by Pink.

If you’re not 100% familiar with this song, the chorus goes

Raise your glass if you are wrong
in all the right ways
all my underdogs
we will never be, never be
anything but loud
and nitty gritty
dirty little freaks

Charming, yes?

And there’s another — of course four-year-old favourite — line, that goes “party crasher, panty snatcher. Call me up if you are gangster.”

Yep. The artist in question also occasionally spells her name P!nk. Seriously.

And I don’t judge. I really don’t care.

And I realize you could look at me and say that the reason my kids are singing Pink’s song is because they’ve been exposed to her music (dur).

But the thing is, they haven’t.

Let me clarify: they love this song. And it looks (sounds?) horrible, but if any one of those wide-eyed strangers in the Walmart express line asked my kids if a girl with questionable spelling sang Raise Your Glass, they’d adamantly correct that stranger and say no, it’s sung by a boy named Blaine.

Him. Not her.

Yes. My kids listen to the Glee versions of popular songs, because then I get a break from the traditional ‘kids’ music, and get to hear some fun, catchy, current, upbeat, well-produced music, without profanity.

(Okay, there’s the occasional ‘damn’ or ‘hell’ — but it could be worse.)

But I know how this looks. It looks like my kids (aged four and five) are listening to unedited pop music, swear words and all.

So, in the Walmart express line, when I saw the tell-tale hum as the four-year-old stamped his feet and pumped a fist into the air, about to burst into song, I might have acted a teensy bit like the King of Swamp Castle trying to avert the arias of his limp-dishrag son in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

But it was no use. Why do I even try?

And he wasn’t hurting anyone. He was actually being kind of quiet. And on key. Sort of. Or at least off-key and out-of-tune in a “I’m little and too cute to care” kind of way... that works, right?

I got a tap on my shoulder, and an older woman behind me all but shook her finger at me. “That song has the F word in it, you know.”

I wanted to say, “not the version my kids listen to,” or even snatch another F word from the song and fling it in her face (except my brain was choosing to be sluggish, and ‘freak’ and ‘fool’ were eluding me, unfortunately, since passive-aggressively implying she was both in reply would have been highly satisfying).

Thankfully, my five-year-old leaned in, as if on cue and in time with his brother’s singing, to belt out the lyric, “why so serious?”

And then I remembered: it’s my kids’ job to remind me who I am and who I want to be. And if that means letting people publicly question my parenting, I’m okay with that.

When it comes down to it, my boys are deliriously content to wait, singing, in a horrendous lineup with a full cart, after patiently shopping against their own wishes for the previous hour.

They weren’t touching items on the racks.

They weren’t fighting or hitting each other.

They weren’t whining, they weren’t melting down, and they weren’t asking for anything.

So outwardly, sure, this lady can question my child-rearing all she wants. But regardless of her opinion, I’m confident in my parenting skills.

Or skillz... whatever.

Inner Ninja

A happy thought for Monday...

This song has been spinning in my head lately.

A lot.

Why yes, I have found my inner ninja... have you?

Good Lines

Sometimes I get distracted. <--I trust this statement is no surprise to anyone who knows me. (I'm at the point of my life where I'm convinced I'm a missed diagnosis of ADD... all. over. ze. place.)

Being a language geek, I’ll occasionally get distracted by things that normal other people don’t obsess over...

Lately it’s lines.

Specifically, it’s one of the early lines in the lyrics of “I Will Wait” by Mumford and Sons...

"And I fell heavy into your arms...” (It's at the 0:44s mark.)

So. Good.

The image, the simple poetry... the complete visual and emotional package... all from seven little words... /salivation

This fixation wouldn’t be such a problem, except I pretty much freeze whenever I hear this line, to revel in said writing, overwhelmed.

And this song is rapidly approaching "overplayed" on the radio.

Laundry folding interrupted... trains of thought derailed... conversational focus gone... hell, the other day I sat parked when I could've left a parallel space, but was then forced to sit while traffic passed because I was too busy enjoying that line...

Told you: language geek.