Saturday, October 31, 2015

Late Edition Horror Movie Round-Up

Ok, so it's already Halloween night and you probably already have plans. Some big party or taking the kids Trick or Treating. That's awesome! so, why are you reading this? Go away, this is not for you. This post is for all the stragglers, the people with no plans, or who spent most of the day driving a few hundred miles and is now too tired for plans but you're still, sort of kind of, in a very lazy way, in the Halloween spirit. Here's a quick and dirty round up of horror movies to enhance your evening.  For added atmosphere pop up some popcorn, turn down the lights, and keep watching well into the night, the more you watch, the scarier it gets.

First off, I would say a marathon of any franchise is an easy and good way to go. Halloween, Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, Child's Play, Hellraiser, Saw, even Paranormal Activity, if you're into that, all have plenty of sequels, remakes, and reboots to take you well into the night. Just choose you're favorite villain and hit play. Netflix has all the Hellraisers and some Scream. Amazon Prime Video has all the Saws, free for Prime Members.

Hellraiser

But if you want some discerning selections, my recommendations are below. (Some of these are affiliate links, some of these are not, and some even lead to free viewing; so click away!)


Evil Dead


Honourable Mentions



The Human Centipede

Scariest horror
A Quick Note: Honestly, I think the scariest movies are really those that feature whatever scares you the most. If you're afraid of dolls,  Child's Play or Puppet Master might be the scariest movie for you. For me, I'm terrified of  the devil or the ultimate personification of the devil, and he or it or whatever getting inside my body would be my worst nightmares come alive. Therefore, The Exorcist and it's prequels, but the sequels, top my list as scariest horror movies ever.


The Exorcist

The Cheesiest
The best way to watch any cheesy movie is with the guys from Rifftrax. Here are my faves from the three funniest guys on the planet.

The Last Slumber Party
Plan 9 From Outer Space
The Night of the Living Dead

or, if you can't stand talking during movies try these movies straight up . . .

The Evil Dead (1981)
Prince of Darkness
Leeches (if you can find it)
Night of the Demons (1988)
Killer Klowns from Outer Space

Evil Dead

Here's Hoping You Have A Happy Halloween!!


Friday, October 30, 2015

Art Fart Friday

This week, I thought I'd bring you just a normal Art Fart and not another Ooops! post because we haven't had a normal one yet. This week will be a little preview. A window into an upcoming, brand new page. Plus, a little about how I create most of my pieces.

Behold, the future
This is a very rough copy of a spread I'm working on right now. I was inspired by a painted piece of doily and scraps of book pages you can barely see in the picture above. Plus the endless number of beige shabby chic mixed media and altered pieces I see on Pinterest. Additionally, an envelope will added to the spread but it would have blocked most of the page for the picture.

Anyway, the way I compose these things pretty much makes a giant mess. I think of whatever theme or idea from whatever inspiration I can find and collect every possible type of craft supply that could possibly match it. For this one, it meant going through every scrap, both paper and fabric, then through every whole piece, then every strand of ribbon and thread, then every embellishment, and every bead, and so on and so forth. Basically, I end up with a pile of stuff, in this case all beige, that looks like a craft store vomited in my office.

Next, I lay things next to other things until something starts to come together. Once I like whatever that thing is, I keep building on it until all the blank space is filled. Sometimes, I will keep a few options available off to the side, in case I change my mind, but if I want to get any work done, I have to clear away a bunch of stuff first,  so everything I'm not using gets put away.

Then, I may or may not work on the piece. The above spread is still laying out like this waiting to be refined, glued down, and finished. Given my work pace, things can lay out like this for months or years. I'm trying to rectify this awful habit. The art journal, blog post, and the need for actual working space is helping.

Anyway, that's my artistic process in general and at the moment. I guess, it's a short post today, a relief from the all the much longer posts of the week. Hopefully in a week or two I'll be posting a finished pic and giving even more details on how I layered up this spread, and feature my favorite part the text!


Wednesday, October 28, 2015

A Tale of Two Stories, Part 2

To read the first part of this post and get some backstory, click here.


Welcome to the second version of The Love of Dance, Ballerina in the final revised version. I wrote it at 24, in my junior year of college. To this point, I'd taken the pre-req Introduction to Creative Writing class, and heaps and heaps of literature classes. I'd taken so many literature classes my advisor advised me to become to a Fiction major rather than declare a Creative Writing major. But I was just screwing up my courage to my first workshop class. Yet even without a workshop, my fiction writing had improved greatly between reading so many great works, discussing them in a scholarly way, and writing heaps and heaps of essays, not to mention my continued hobby writing and my further life experiences in three years times. I would like to say the workshop helped the second version but it didn't really. Between my professor disliking it so much I think his true advice would have been to give up writing entirely and my peers not really having much to say, the workshop didn't add a thing, except perhaps the knowledge that I couldn't do much worse than the first. The story changed drastically and the writing much improved.

I can't say this is the final version I turned in because the file marked as Final Revision is actually missing the ending. I don't know if the file was corrupted or it was an unfinished file and I accidently deleted the final final version (I use to have tons of copies of document files as I was going through revision after revision, even if nothing changed much).

It's funny because it's true!

The finished final would have been printed and handed in and I probably didn't go to collect my final portfolio for whatever reason I had at the time. So this version is sort of cobbled together but I think it's what the final version would have been. Enjoy!




Ballerina -- By Stephanie Thompson, 5,634 word count

When audiences watched Daphne Calistratti dance, they were elated in the passion of her loves. They despaired in the mortality of her deaths. Their own hearts broke at her sorrowful good-byes. When Daphne danced, she transcended the mechanics, the physical movements, the technicalities of ballet. The enchantment was strong enough to transport even the orchestra who watched her night after night and knew her off stage.

Daphne heard Jack's voice counting and shouting emotions in her head: You're sad, someone killed your puppy, someone stole your boyfriend, your best friend has cancer. I want to feel . . . It repeated again and again like an orbiting satellite.

Right now, the choreographer's instruction was second to the sparring between Daphne and her opposite, Evelyn Rogette.

"Bitch diva," Evelyn said.
She travels backwards towards the audience, half bowed, her character having just received defiant news from her daughter played by Daphne.

I want to feel you goddamn depression.  Become a fucking black hole of despair.

Her face ached from the strained mask of grief.

"Faceless body," she said.

Her lips moved slightly like a murmur and the audience swore Daphne was crying out for her mother.  Evelyn swoons, in feigned death, still sneering at Daphne as she leaves the stage making room for the corps de ballet.

"You encourage her," Frank said.  "Ignore her and she'll ignore you.  Then you can both just dance."
His dry lips tapped her cheek in his favored 'congratulations' gesture.

"Is Jack  . . . having a fit?" she asked.
"Daphne, please call him Jacques."
"I am not a puppet . . . in his . . . theater, if he wants to keep . . . the French bull he can but I won't."
"Try it in public.  Yes he's pissed.  Something about expression.  I said if you expressed any more you're face would break but he cursed and stomped off.  Aren't you going to sit for a minute?"

More dancers squeezed past to join ballerinas onstage at the height of the corps performance.  They were nearing the end of "Le Casse Suite."  The mother's death meant freedom for the daughter and Daphne's final performance of the night would be one of joy as she finally joined her partner with out interference.

A dull throb permeated her legs as the muscles cooled down.  Then to answer Frank's question, Daphne turned out her feet and bent her knees in grande pliés.

"F.Y.I. Jacques is going to make a speech tonight and I think he is going to want you beside him.  Mick, where is Carlos?  His dance is coming up I need him in the other wing.  I can't see him from here."
Mick rushed into the racks of tulle filled costumes.

Jack's voice re-filled Daphne's head, speaking in rhythm with the music for her next dance.
1,2,3,4,step, step, lift, arms open wide, wider keep it light.  Don't strain just be light you are free. free.  Your heart is pounding exploding in joy. Dammit Daphne.  Ok do the lift again.  Carlos, hold her there until she gets the arms right.  Daphne, be posed but natural, emanate lightness

The orchestral strings began the final song.  The lovers approached each other from opposites sides.
light light light light 
Carlos' hands landed in the exact right spot, pressing hard against the bruises that were made in rehearsal.
light light light light
He looked up to her, theirs eyes locked, and the lift was strong and balanced.  
light light light
Their bodies together were like the delicate cup of a lily cradled by a strong unbending stem.

"Jesus, did you scarf the whole buffet last night or take it easy with just half?"
She clenched her teeth and released her body for the descent.  The audience saw it as gentle like dew falling down a blade of grass.  She felt it like a crash; the hard wood stage jarring her shins and increasing the pain already constant in her knees.

"Would you like to break my legs slamming me down like that?"

They held each other face to face.  Joy in the final fulfillment of the love swelled with the orchestra.  Later the audience said light shone from them and tangible emotion filled the theatre.

"Fat cow," he said.
"Ugh, mouthwash much?"

Daphne wrapped one arm around his neck, extended her other arm behind her, and leaned her head back.  The music finally ended and the audience erupted in applause. The curtain fell, the clapping was muffled, dancers and crew skipped excitedly on stage.  The curtain rose again.  Bowing began with the most insignificant members and continued until Daphne, Frank, and Jack were the only ones left.  A stage manager handed a bouquet to Daphne.  She dug her nose into the red and white rose and tried not to breathe.  There was no card or accompanying instructions but she knew who had sent them.  They were always from Evelyn and Jack, who knew her allergies, they did it just in spite.  She smiled at the crowd even as her eyes itched and sinus pressure built up.  Jack tightened his hold on her waist, his fingers digging painfully into her bruises.

"Merci, merci mes amis. . . I am so glad you have enjoyed our leetle performance."
The audience hushed as Jacques Dupree began his announcement.  Daphne bristled at his ridiculously fake accent.  She wanted to run.  The itch in her eyes infected her blood stream and filled her body.  Her skin crawled where he was touching her.
Please say what you will and let me go, let me go, let me go.
Her blood burned for nicotine.

"Theez iz the last performance of 'Le Casse Suite'" clapping broke out "mais-mais . . . but this iz not the end of our zeazon.  Az alwayz we will end with Daphne Calistrati in 'The Nutcraker' the rest of the title was interrupted by more clapping.  "However," he resumed when the clapping died again," this seasonz intermediate ballet 'Le Prix de Choix' iz a new piece composed par moi" more clapping.

Daphne's heart was pounding harder than it should from just exertion.  The itching kept growing.  Jack's fingers dug into her side.  Her knees, bruises, and forced smile all throbbed with the beating of her heart.

Run, run, run, run. You don't want to hear what he will say.  Don't let him hurt you again.  Stop him and run. run. Run.  RUN!
But she stood there waiting for the death knell.

"And new works require a fresh faces." A distant hum grew louder in Daphne's ears. "From our own talent filled company, I have chosen Evelyn . . ."

She heard nothing afterwards, the hum over powered reality.  She separated from her own body.  Jack finally released her but she still did not move.  Evelyn stepped beside him pushing Daphne out of her way.  Frank kissed her cheek. Daphne kissed her cheek.  Jack kissed her lips.  The audience's hands continued to clap.  Her own hands clapped against the plastic wrapped around the flowers.  She observed it all from a distance.

An eternity later the curtain fell for the last time.  The entire corps squealed and ran to Evelyn. Daphne drifted unnoticed off stage.  The flowers fell from her limp arms.  Her pointe shoes made dead thunk sounds against the floor.  Her dressing room was little more than a broom closet, room for a vanity, a chair, and a duffle bag.  She pulled out her cigarettes and immediately lit one.  She plopped into her chair.  The cigarette burned down to her fingers, singeing her index and middle fingers before she put it out and lit another.

Frank opened the door when she didn't answer the knocking.
He spoke to the wall above her head.  "Daphne, he wasn't suppose to do that.  We were going to tell you tomorrow.  It isn't a big deal.  You are not out of the company.  You are still the Prima, it will be on all the programs   Evelyn was threatening to leave if she didn't get larger parts."
He looked at her now, trying to find signs of anger.
"Have you been crying?"

"Just allergies from the damned flowers."
Her own voice surprised her.  It sounded normal.  Her insides trembled and wailed.  She now felt the wetness of tears she hadn't known she was crying.  Her third unsmoked cigarette was half gone.  She finally took a drag.  In all of this her voice still sounded normal.

"There is a part for you in Le Prix de Choix-- the major lead under Evelyn.  You will have less rehearsal time this way, Daph, but your pay is the same.  It's a very fair deal."

"What about next season?  In January, when we renegotiate contracts. . .what happens to me then?"
She asked the question but already knew the answer.  The question was obligatory, a line she had to say to continue the scene.  Frank stood near the door bracing himself for her wrath.  And while her face was grim set, the usual fiery eyes that accompanied her anger were absent, yet his answer still came with great trepidation.
"There will always be a place here for you, the audience loves you."

That was the final ring of the knell: The audience loves you but the company has no need for you more than a crowd pleaser. You are too old.  
She sucked on her cigarette in earnest now like the burning need had made its presence known again.  When she lit the next one in silence and made no other attempt to move, Frank took this as an opportunity to escape.

"Alright then, there will be a briefing of the new ballet at the studio Monday morning and rehearsals in the afternoon.  Enjoy your weekend off; everyone has deserved it."
And having said his lines, he slipped out the door and shut it gently behind him.

Sounds of a living world came muffled through her door.  Cigarette ash fell unchecked to the floor.  A theatre hand shouted that they had thirty minutes to leave or get locked in.  Finally she moved for something more than for smoking and lighting.  She untied her shoes, removed the moist padding, and stuffed her drying bags in.  She placed the entire thing in a mesh bag and threw it in the ash beside her chair.  Even if she had cared to be more considerate, there was no place else for them.  Her skirt and leotard were balled up and thrown just as carelessly into her dance bag.  The tights came off last and went in the trash--they usually didn't last more than one performance and she wasn't even going to think about trying to preserve the delicate material.

She stood naked in her narrow room glaring at the reflection of the body that dance made.  Her skin was smooth ivory and even after the performance there was not a sign of blush.  There was no scar or dimple; it was perfect save the dark finger shaped bruises that glared from her waist.  She had lost count soon after 50th time they had practiced that lift.  The rehearsal had ended with Jack still unhappy about the results and Daphne's ribs felt like overly abused timber.  

The muscles of her arms and legs were visible but long and lean like any normal persons but she had no layer of fat to hide them.  It looked as though she didn't spend hours dancing a day . . . like she had no power at all.  She let down her thick flame red hair, the only extraordinary thing about her appearance.  It rested on her shoulder highlighting the curve her neck.  Her mother's voice floated to her from the past.

The instant you were born I knew you would be a ballerina.  It's the neck and your shoulder--that graceful curve.  I knew it then, the great suffering and beauty your life would entail.

Daphne shook her head, worse than Jack's voice was that of her mother's.

She pulled on a cotton black tank and dark denim jeans.  She slid her feet into cheap canvas shoes, hauled her dance and shoe bag over her shoulder, lit another cigarette, flicked off the light and left the silent darkened theater.
But she did not leave the voices there.  Despite the action of her head, she had not shaken either of the ghost voices from her mind.

You'll be a better dancer than I ever was.  Everyone will love you and no one will leave you.  You'll make it out of Caton.
There is no other woman I would rather be with. . .  there is no other dancer I would have dance my creations.  You are my living fantasy.
Don't let a man kill your dreams, Daphne.  Don't let him stop you ever because men are mortal, fallen, sinful--they will do you wrong but passion-the passion for dance will always support you.
It takes a lifetime to build a dancer and only one man to ruin her.
A single injury Daphne!  Only one and your career is destroyed.  You have to be more careful, much more careful.  Or what else is there for you?

When she was outside her apartment door, she didn't remember getting there.  Did she walk?  Did she ride the bus?  She remembered nothing but the voices.

When her key didn't turn the lock and the door opened from the inside, terror climbed up her throat until she recognized Troy.  She said nothing still gripped in fear and general confusion.  Troy lived three blocks from her and she hadn't been by since the season had started.  Why did she automatically come here?  Somehow Troy knew without her saying even a greeting.

"You look like you need beer and pizza but I don't have nay here so let's go out to Luigi's."
She tried to protest but he allowed no dissention.
"You can tell me all about it in the taxi."
So she told the whole evening in the back of a cab and he injected his commentary about the people he knew as well as she.  Troy had been in the company too but he had left before he was they could shove him out.  He found a business partner and opened a successful café and bookstore.  He was the only person she knew who understood the dancing world but no longer had the same stakes in it that she did.

In the restaurant, Daphne was the only one with pizza as Troy ordered a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.  Till they split a pitcher of beer.

"Daphne, forget them.  Leave that company, you're the only thing makes resemble decency anyway."
She said nothing to this but inhaled on her cigarette and drank from her mug.
"There are other companies.  Hell, there are other kinds of dance too.  Ballet is quite possibly the most boring one.  Hindsight is 20-20 and I can barely see how I stayed with that gig for so long.  Try something else.  Try jazz!  Think off all the pop tours you could go on, You could really travel the world.  Maybe even marry a musician.  You know K-Fed was a back up dancer for Britney."
He winked.  Daphne couldn't help but laugh at both the absurdity of Britney Spears and Kevin Federline and at the idea of doing another type of dance.

"I'm not made for anything else, Troy.  Those dancers have thick legs and strong arms.  They sweat and jerk and grimace.  That's not what we do at all.  There is no elegance or grace in all there stomping and gyrating."

Her mother had said something very similar years ago when asked if she offered jazz or tap classes at her school.  It's a ballet school, for real dancers, not stomping and contortion.  Elegant beauty, that's the true essence of dance.

"That's such old fashioned bullshit.  It's all movement and music plus whatever you bring to it."
"Then why didn't you do it?"
Now he didn't answer and drank his beer instead.
"Because you're a dance snob just like the rest of us.  Any serious and self respecting ballerina would just shuffle off stage shrinking with crumbling age like a closing morning glory.  That's what I should do."
Even as she said this numbness threatened to collapse around her again.  What would she be without ballet?

As if to answer Troy said, "There are other careers too.  I mean keeping a bookshop is quite respectable and self sustaining."

Troy smiled at her and she smiled back an empty smile because a louder voice had answered before Troy. A voice with Jack's authority:  You are nothing but what I make you, Daphne.  There are thousands of others lined up behind you.  If it weren't for me and my dances you would disappear with them.  Working behind counters and remembering your little girl ballerina fantasy.

Whatever solace her mind was subconsciously seeking in Troy it hadn't been found.  Numbness swallowed her completely again and dumped her in front her actual apartment late in the evening.  She remembered nothing of the rest of the dinner but felt her mind swimming with food and beer.
She turned on the light of the kitchen, the only light in the studio apartment.  She still had her dance bags with her and threw them in one corner of the space and then changed into her shorts and dance company t-shirt.

She moved back to the kitchen. From the fridge she pulled a bottle of Cabaret Sauvignon and Tupperware of Brie.   She filled a large wine glass, one that holds half a bottle, put a smear of cheese on a saucer, and a slice of crusty French bread.  She felt guilty about her low class meal still heavy in her stomach but she didn't want to let go of the fuzzy clarity that accompanied alcohol and over eating.  But in her apartment there was no more beer and pizza just cheese, wine, and bread.
This was Jack's doing.  Before him she would have had ample supply of emotional junk food but he insisted that she was too elegant for that.  He said that only when she acted high class would people treat her high class.  And she was 16 fresh from Tennessee and he was an up and coming choreographer born and raised in NYC.  What did she know about real living and real people? All she knew was what her mother had told her about dancing; Jack was there to fill in the rest.

When you eat well, you know, eat quality, you feed your body more than just nutrients.  Then your body gives more than just life.  When you please your mouth, brain, and body with delicious food they reward you with perfect execution, passion, and flawless memory of choreography.

She headed into the darkness of the living area of her studio apartment.  When she first got to New York, she had shared the small studio apartment with two older dancers.  When they left she could afford the place on her own but she didn't expand her domain.  Most of her living occurred in one half while her dance equipment occupied the other half.

On the table near her futon was her peppermint lotions, oils, and a half empty jar of Vaseline.  She flipped on the TV to the Food Network catching the middle of an Iron Chef marathon. She sipped her wine and snacked her bread between rubbing her feet and legs.  She had a routine: sip, rub essential peppermint oil right, chew, rub oil left, sip, smoke, chew, slather lotion right, sip, slather lotion left, smoke, seal with Vaseline all around, smoke, chew sip.  Her legs sighed relief with the cooling of the mint.  That was something her mom had taught her to keep her skin smooth and her muscles relaxed.  Jack had admired her for it because of her determination to do it each time she danced.  She did it whether drunk, sick, or exhausted.  

Is he teaching Evelyn this?  Molding her to be the perfect dancer who can be his perfect lover too?

Her eyes left the oddly adorned table, went past the TV, and focused on the spaces around it. Most of Daphne's walls and shelves were covered with gifts.  Anyone who ever visited the company or her mother's school would give her something, a knick-knack or autographed photo, and she would keep it.  She kept everything from fans: letters, clippings, artwork.  It looked like a poorly made collage with some papers yellowing and the tape coming unstuck in some places. .  Fan letters, pictures, ballerina photos and statures, clippings plastered and collecting dust anywhere the eye fell.
She finally noticed the two pictures just above the TV.  The only two in frames.  One of her mother and one of Jack.  Why hadn't she noticed that before?  Why was that picture hanging up there still after he'd left her three years ago?  Was it three years?  Why was his voice still in her head dictating her every step?

A clang of dropping pots and pans came from the TV.  Her head snapped back to Iron Chef where the Challenger's sous-chef had just had an accident.  At the same time the Iron Chef was having flare up in one of his sauces.  The flames reached above his head in a barely controlled splendor.  Daphne watched as the fire flicked above the confines of the set and onto the wall, licking the bottom of the picture frames.  

She would not get Jack's new roles.

This knowledge floated from the new silence in her head.

Her mother and Jack had finally stopped choreographing her life.  It was her voice alone speaking to her, at last figuring out the full implications of Jack's announcement.

Daphne was only going to dance 'the classics', the boring dances she could perform in her sleep. She was being phased out.  That's what Frank had really meant.  Soon she would be a figurehead closer to a guest star cameo than the Prima Ballerina.  She wouldn't get to express her passion; she wouldn't be pushed to unexplored limits.  Year after year it would be The Nutcracker Suite and Swan Lake.  She would be a relic displayed twice a year for people to admire and worship what she use to be.
She clenched her teeth.  She wasn't going to let that happen to her.  That's what her mother had done, that's what she had been warned against.  Her mother faded in to the backstage and then off stage and then into the annals of history.  She had traded on her name to open a school and still stay with in the realm of dance.

Keep the fire, Daphne, do not smother the passion.

That fire needed the spotlight, it deserved the spot light and she wasn't going to relinquish it yet.  Her body would have to crumble beneath her before she would stand aside willingly.  Nothing but the Prima spot  and the true roles the title required would feed her fire, her life . . . she needed this to live.
Jack had said it after all:  If she wasn't a dancer what else was there?  It took her long time to realize that he meant that she was nothing but a body to him.  A body he could make dance in the day and have sex with at night.  Then she had felt that there was something wrong with being only a dancer.  She had felt dirty, whorish, for using her body to make a living.  And as her mother had warned, a man had smothered her passion. Every dance was a struggle, not because of aging but because Jack had stolen her fire and was using it to kindle Evelyn.  She had been dying. . . but now she would rip it back.  She didn't care if it left Evelyn broken and bleeding, it was her's rightfully.  She was going to get it back and live.

She was early for the meeting.  Daphne had wanted to talk to Frank before but in his usual brisk style he shook her off.  A few other dancers milled around the mirrored rehearsal room.  Daphne tapped her foot.

She hadn't slept last night.  She tried turning the TV off, turning the air up, folding up her futon, tossing, drinking water.  Eventually she gave up and sat on a window ledge blowing smoke at the city.  

The whole weekend had been a series of faltering.  Determined to keep all the dances belonging to the Prima, when she laid sleepless on her futon.  But then she would put on her leotard and practice shoes, balancing her self with barre and raising her leg in time with the music, a regimental tune, she would be convinced she should fall back into line and except her age determined role. She enjoyed the new silence of her mind but felt like she was drowning in uncertainty now.  She didn't know what the right thing to do was.

Her toes were sore from her furious tapping.  The other dancers were talking and laughing together.  Their words echoed and fell meaningless on her ears.  Gastric juices burned in her stomach.  She longed for those cigarettes she had burned into the night.

Just get this over, over, over, over, so we can go back to dancing.  

Half of her wanted to find Jack and Frank right then.  Right there and fight on her terms and less on display.  Some of her wanted to yell at him in front of everyone.  Expose him for the manipulating and using man he is.  And the tiniest voice in her quailed against any action.  If she just sat there, no one would think less of her.  She would be doing what she should be doing; what any ballerina at her age should expect.  And the arguments repeated in a vicious loop each with the same logical argument and sounding right in it's turn.

She stood up, more for a reason to move than in an act of decision-making.  She had a cigarette lit and in her mouth before she realized what she was doing.  Carlos and some 16-year-old starters glared at her.  Smoking anywhere in the building was forbidden but she couldn't stub the cigarette out on the dance floor.  Daphne was stuck with her action of accidental rebellion.  She turned away and was then forced to face her own reflection; one she had been avoiding in the mirror walled room. Her eyes were like dark smudges in on face.  Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail but the bumps and loose strands made it looked like her hair was trying desperately to escape from her head.  Her cigarette smoke hung around her giving her a ghost appearance.

"Alright gang, we're gonna make this quick."
Frank pushed through the door and had Jack and Evelyn trailing behind him.
"We're gonna do a brief story overview and then the announcement of the roles, well, the rest of the roles.  Then we can all go home and enjoy the rest of the weekend."
"I have something to say."

She was only sure she had spoken when everyone was looking at her.  Suddenly she thought she could do anything like she could scream and stab someone and run through the studio laughing or break down in tears and just appear hysterical in front of everyone. Ash fell from her cigarette because her hand was shaking.  Perhaps she shouldn't say anything in front of anyone, when she was like this, when anything could happen.  Smoke wafted up and burned her eyes reminding her, urging her to speak.

"Sure Daph, we can talk in my office.  Just let Jack get started and then we'll go," Frank said.  

Daphne knew this was only placating measure.  Something to stop her from making a scene in front the other dancers.  A dancer would go into Frank's office and come back out either submissive or rejected from the company and the confrontation stayed a mystery.  But she had been dancing other people scenes for years, it was empowering now, to think she was creating her own.

"No, I'm not waiting for him to go first.  I want to say something and I want to say it now."

She looked at the trio, waiting for permission. Empowerment faded quickly and she returned back to indecision.  She thought the rehearsal room must have looked like a Degas painting gone wrong.  Dancers weren't dancing or stretching, some were in costume, some were in jeans and the principles were standing in lines offense and defense, smoke trailing from Daphne's hand, and no one looked elegant or graceful.  They weren't dancers, ballerinas, they were just people, waiting. If someone had said no or ignored her like an insolent child she may have just sat back down and relented quietly.  Instead, Frank said "Alright then.”

"I will dance the lead in Le Prix de Choix.  I will dance because it is in my contract, I am the Prima Donna, I dance the lead roles.  If it's a demotion you should say so and give a satisfactory reason.  But my dancing is the same level, I come to every rehearsal, I stay late, and I am always on time.  There is no reason."

Her voice was soft like she was talking to herself but the entire company was silent.  Each member heard her without complaint or strain.

"Daphne, you've got this all wrong.   You're not demoted; you're just sitting this one out.  There is no breach of contract.  You still have the title," Frank said.

The longer she spoke softly the more nervous he became.

"That's nothing but bullshit, being Prima is more than a title.  It's more than the role, it's more than the moves, it's more than the dance.  Evelyn could execute every move perfectly and she still couldn't be the prima.  She's missing the. . . intrinsic fire.  She's only an animate imitation."
Daphne kept her eyes on Frank, as though he was the only person in the room.

"Jack thinks you're a cold fish next to my fire," Evelyn said.
Daphne hardly glanced at her.
"Whore," she said.
"Takes one to know one."

"Hey, girls, knock it off," Frank said.  "Daphne it's already decided.  I've seen Evelyn perform the part and she does fine.  Ultimately it is Jack's piece and so it is his decision."

Now, Daphne's stare fell on Jack.  He was already glaring at her.

"We all know what Jack decides with.  Just stop pretending any of this has to do with Kendal's threat; no one would care if she were gone.  It's Jack you're afraid to lose.  You're sacrificing me to keep him.  All because he wants this month's piece of ass to have a promotion."

When Jack spoke it was with out his French façade. 
"Why do you think you got the spot in the first place?  Or did you never think that you being here had anything to do with me?"
Jack smirked.  Evelyn and a few others snickered.  Frank looked at his feet.  Daphne dropped her cigarette. The smoke stopped veiling her as the cigarette burned out against the floor.

"I guess you haven't been paying much attention all these years."  More snickers.

She wasn't surprised.  It was something she heard all the time.  But Jack had phrased the question in a different way: Did you never think that you being here had anything to do with me?  She suddenly had new questions come to mind: What was she doing here?  Why not go to another company?  Why had she spent the last three years torturing herself under Jack's thumb?

There was no answer.

Frank, Jack, and Evelyn looked small now.  All of them did.  Like leaked helium balloons.

She wasn't staying here.  Nothing was keeping her there.  She would find some other company.  Or maybe she wouldn't.  But she would be doing it on her own account either way.
Daphne walked past them, out into the hall, and down to the locker room.  Frank came in when she was packing her bag.

"That's not exactly true you know.  We probably would have made you Prima anyway, just a little bit later, if it weren't for Jack's insistent."
"It doesn't matter, Frank."
"It matters to me.  I don't want you to feel inadequate; you've earned your title a hundred times over.  You're right, Evelyn doesn't have what you have, fire or what not, it just isn't there.  But no dancer is good without a choreographer and I can't afford to lose Jack.  I just can't, Daphne."
"I can.  So, I hope y'all can survive without me.  I'm getting away from this shit, I'm gonna do my own thing now.  Good-bye, Frank."

Frank let her go past and threw up his hands as he headed back to the meeting.  But Evelyn followed her to the door.

"You can't go, Daphne.  You know the company won't last," she said, oddly pleading.
She turned to her.  Evelyn had shrunk even more, looking like an overgrown child.

"I wasted too much time with him, you should go before you get lost in it too."
"I wouldn't know where to go.  Here, Jack takes care of me."
"Yeah, he use to take care of me and he'll probably take care of someone else after you.  Then what will you do?"

Evelyn just stared at her, waiting for the instruction, for the next move.

"You should leave him, now, before you become so dependent you're nothing but an empty shell.  Then you will have to painfully remake yourself.  Now you have the love of dance and that's enough.  It will take care of you in a way no man can.  Depend on that and get out of this place."


Evelyn still said nothing.  Daphne left the building.  She let herself get swept into the sidewalk crowds and smiled.



You know, now that I think back on it, I think The Love of Dance was the first short story I ever wrote and completed. In fact, I'm not 100% sure I ever tried to write a short story before but instead mostly focused on novels, since that was all I read. Either way, I feel like Ballerina was my first "professional" piece and I'm pretty happy with the results. Yet, to quote from the same Faulkner quote as yesterday "I'm convinced I can do it better." A piece I haven't thought about in years, that I don't really care about, that I have no intention of publishing anywhere else, and still I keep thinking, "This would be so easy and short to revise and make even vastly better." On top of all the other works that need revising, that need writing, and the countless art and craft projects I'm working on and still a part of me wants to revise this thing!

Ah well, at least Faulkner says it's a healthy condition to have.



Tuesday, October 27, 2015

A Tale of Two Stories, Part 1

About a month ago, in another post, I briefly mentioned the first story I'd ever submitted to a workshop, my first piece of fiction reviewed by peers. I was so terrified I couldn't write straight. I ended up submitting a story I'd written a few years previous, when I was thinking of becoming a dancer, taking lessons and everything. My professor, Matt Bondurant (maybe you've heard of his family), hated it. He didn't say so, of course, he just had a general air of disapproval. Actually, I think he was pretty much disappointed in most of our class on a whole. In the end, he did like my other writing and encouraged me to write non-genre fiction, which kind of annoyed me at the time, but I think it made my creative writing education better in the end. Plus, the horror story he asked me to rework to mainstream literature got published, twice in a way, regardless.

Anyway, this isn't about Prof. Bondurant, or college, or writing workshops, or any of the above. Instead, I just wanted to post the before and after affect. So, this post is the before story, the short story I wrote when I was 21 and taking the first steps to becoming a dancer. Steps that only lasted until the first performance and a severe case of stage fright diverted me to another course. That course wasn't writing just yet, but it was always there in the background, thus this short story. When I wrote this, I'd been writing as a hobby for 9 or 10 years, giving up and starting over at various times. No one but my mom and maybe a couple of Xanga friends had read my work and even I didn't take it seriously. I think I revised it a bit before I submitted but not enough to make it much better.

It has all the hallmarks of my early stuff: super angry heroines, foul-mouthed and full of rage for no reason, a knight in shining whatever who saves her from herself, a villainous asshole whose super mean for no reason, and bad writing.

All right, that's enough ado. On with the fiction.




The Love of Dance - By Stephanie Thompson, 2,770 words

The Performance

“Get out of my way!”
“Bitch diva.”
“Faceless body.”

The stage manager whispered nervously from the wings, “Would you two knock it off?”
An audience, sitting not twenty feet away, was entranced by the dancers on stage and blissfully unaware of the words of the dueling ballerinas.  Younger up and coming soloist Joslyn Dembec danced the part of mother to the experienced prima soloist Daphne Calistrati.  The performance was “Le Casse Suite” by the Kansas City’s Ballet Company’s newest choreographer Jacques Dupree.  The scene changes.  On stage now were Daphne and her newest prized partner Carlos Hernandez in the last movement of the suite.  They were dancing the parts of lovers at their last meeting before being tragically separated by war.  Again words are being exchanged unbeknownst to the audience.
The audience was in awe of the dancers gravity defying lifts, delicate holds, and delicate solos.  The partner’s love seemed tangible.
On stage the dancers sparred.

“Oh, fuck me! Did you scarf the whole buffet at the premier or did you take it easy with just half a cow?”
He lowered her.
“Would you like to break my legs slamming me down like that?”
They held each other face-to-face.  Their expression was of heart breaking sadness; their words were far from it.
“Fat bitch.”
“Ugh, mouthwash much?”

The performance ends.  The company and crew take their bows.  Daphne’s arms are laden with bouquets.  Carlos stands on one side of her and the director and choreographer on the other.

“I’m not dancing with that bastard again.”

Her smile didn’t falter.  Carlos paused mid bow for a split second.  He knew he shouldn’t have made the fat joke, now he’d be back in the corps he was plucked from.  Neither Frank Hershey, the director, nor Jacques were surprised.  Carlos was Daphne’s third partner since rehearsals began. They were more surprised that he had lasted so far into the season.

“Well, we only have one more male good enough for the roll.”

The curtain closed for the last time.  Daphne threw the flowers down but it was too late her eyes were already watery and itching.

 –Damned allergies—she thought.

“He better be good I’m tired of all the shit heads.”

The stage was empty of people now.  Daphne turned back to see the remnants.  Flower petals were trampled all over stage.  She sighed then lit a cigarette.

“Daphne?  Are you listening?” Frank called.  “If you want this new partner you have to be in rehearsal room B tomorrow at 8am.  And be prepared to practice until the matinee performance.”


The Rehearsal
“ . . . 7, 8, 1, 2 . . . No, no, no,” Jack put his head in is hands.  Since he was in dancer company only, he dropped his fake French accent.  He was just Jack from Macon, Georgia.  And he was frustrated at the continuous failure of this particular lift.  “Jason, you had this on par with Valerie.  What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry Jack, she’d just so much lighter than Val.”
“Kiss ass,” Daphne interjected.
She was sucking on the same cigarette she had been working on since the beginning of rehearsal.
“Would you put that shit out, Daphne?  You killing yourself and us,” Jack scolded.
“Bite my ass,” she responded.

A cell phone began ringing.
Jack sighed, “I have to take this.  You guys keep practicing that lift.”

“Pretentious bastard,” She said once he left the practice room.

Jason watched her as she practiced at the barre.  Her every move full of grace and beauty while her words were laced with ugliness.  But his eyes could only see the beautiful delicate dancer.  Her brown hair was pulled back into a harsh bun.  He imagined letting it down, seeing the waves fall soft around her face. He tried to ignore the image while he practiced his variation solo.  Daphne examined him in the mirror.  He didn’t have the typical dancer physique.  Where he should have been slender he was broad.  His muscles were bulky compared to the other male dancer’s strong and lithe muscles.  She tore her eyes away and concentrated on her pliés.

“We should practice this lift before he returns,” Jason suggested.

For once Daphne was without a snide comment but was she was still comfortable with her smug silence.  Jason counted the beats to the lift.  Daphne approached in her fluttering gallop.  Jason’s hands clasped her waist; his strong arms lifted her from the ground.  And again he used too much strength.

“Holy fuck!” Daphne exclaimed just as both dancers toppled over. “Goddamn it,” she added as she got up off the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he started.
“Are you trying to fucking kill me?” she demanded.
She lit another cigarette.
“You’re going to kill yourself with those things,” he warned.
“Oh, fuck you.”

They stood at odds on opposite sides of the room.  At that moment Jack returned.

“You two lucked out, some tornado scare has got the theatre worried.  They cancelled the matinee performance.  But they haven’t decided about tonight,” he paused while looking at the two dancers.  
“Have you even been practicing?”

His eyes flitted between the two dancers.  He started his attack on Daphne.

“Frank told you he’s our last male.  You can’t have a strop now.”
“You don’t know what the hell is going on, do you?”
“I can’t believe your doing this to me again,” he raised his voice.  “Every season it’s the same damn thing.”

The stressed choreographer had forgotten about Jason.
“Get your head out of your ass and listen,” Daphne tried to reason.

He interrupted again, “You should remember, you are replaceable.  There’s only one reason Frank keeps you on, and everyone knows it.”
“Shut the hell up,” her voice was low and stern.  Her words were deliberate.
“You had me, you’ve probably been off with half the company.  Who’s to say you aren’t fucking Frank too?”
“I am,” her voice trembled.  “You’re just jealous that you couldn’t keep me.”
“Nah,” he dismissed.  “There’s nothing to miss.  You’re just an overrated second-class ballerina, Daphne.  Most of the chorus are prettier and much more willing to do what it takes to get your spot.”

Daphne’s slender body trembled with emotion.  Tears built up in her eyes.
“Fuck you! Fuck all of you!  If you think someone else can dance this shit half as well as I can then let them!  This entire company can kiss my ass!  You tell Frank I quit and there is nothing he can do about it.  You can’t pay me to take this shit any more.”

Daphne stormed from the practice room.  Jack watched with a sinister smile.

The Rescue
Jason had stood in disbelief during the fight.  He was new to the company and unaware of the continuing viciousness.  He couldn’t tell if the fight was professional or personal.   He didn’t know that it was always both.  He was unsure if he should step in or not.  But now that it was over he spoke.

“Are we done?” his voice was steady and strong.
  Jack was startled.
“Uh, yeah. Um, take a half hour break,” he tried to compose himself.
He never met Jason’s eyes.  His cell phone rang again.
“What?” he answered aggressively.

The following words of conversation were lost as Jason left the room.  He wanted to find Daphne.
On either side of the hall were practice studios filled with chorus ballerinas.  Jason went straight towards the changing rooms.

Daphne was crying at her locker.  She pulled tights, leotards, extra shoes, packets of ace bandages, and a slew of jars from the undecorated metal box.  There were no pictures of loved ones, or newspaper articles of success.  Just the cold metal.  She was crying and muttering to herself.
“Five years! Five fucking years! That’s it, I’m out.  Nothing, absolutely nothing is worth any of this shit.”

Jason approached quietly.  Her last statement stirred him to speak.
“Dancing,” he said.  “Dancing for the love of dancing, that’s worth everything.”
She wiped her tears away quickly. She sniffed and zipped up her duffle.
“What do you know, newbie?”
Jason stood in the way of her leaving.  She tried to walk around him but he moved.  There was a stand off.

“Would you move?”
“No.”
“Look, I don’t even care enough about you to insult you, just let me by,” she said.
“Why are you so mean?” he inquired.
“Oh what the fuck?  Are you Doctor Phil now?”
“I just don’t understand.  You are a magnificent dancer, a beautiful woman.  What is with the attitude?”
“I really don’t need this. Move, Mr. Fix It.”

With a surprise shove she pushed Jason out of her way.  He hadn’t suspected her to become physical.  But he quickly recovered and chased her down the hall. He gripped her arm.
“We have to be back in half an hour,” he informed her.

“Are you dense or something?  I’m not going back, I’m through.   The world has lost the light of Daphne Calistrati, thanks to a company full of assholes and backstabbers.”

Daphne tried to pull away but Jason pulled her towards him.  He kissed her with a startling passion. She mildly resisted at first.  Then she melted into the warmth of the kiss.  Until she heard a noise, a stifled giggle.  Joslyn had entered the hall in the middle of the kiss.  Daphne opened her eyes at the slight noise.  She saw the gloating contempt in the other dancer’s eyes, the smug smile on her face.  And she pulled away from Jason.  She ran out of the building and into the street.  Her taxi wasn’t there yet.  Stinging tears rolled down her cheeks as she waited.

Jason looked behind him after Daphne ran.  He saw Joslyn the same as Daphne saw her.  A vindictive selfish child.  Beautiful and cruel. He followed Daphne onto the street.

The Explanation
“Where are you going?” he asked.

Daphne exploded again.
“What the hell do you want from me?  Are you just trying to save this role for yourself?  Because you will go straight back to the chorus when I’m gone.  Is that it?  Because that part, this company, is not worth it.”

“I just want to know why.”

“Oh, right.  Why am I so mean right?  Fine!  ‘Dancing for love of dancing.’ That’s what you said earlier, right?  Well, I’ve been dancing my entire life.  25 years.  Dancing was my first and only love.  But it crushed my soul; it devoured my heart and gave me back shit.  At 15 a company in Nebraska accepted me.  At 16 I was the youngest prima ballerina in the company history.  At 20 they replaced me with a younger prima who took my . . . everything.  When I came to this company they didn’t even have a prima spot.  The girls use to rotate for the lead parts.  I auditioned and they created a spot just for me.  And a year later Jack came along when he was just Jack.  He started making these fantastic parts, again just for me.  So I started dancing just for him.  Because I loved him.  And overnight I wasn’t a dancer anymore.  One day I became a whore.  Everyday the jeers and sneers got worse.  I was just a second rate dancer who fucked everybody so she could to stay on top.”
She stopped.  Tears were streaming down her face now.  Her throat and lungs hurt from her screaming and crying.  Jason easily heard her yelling over the busy city traffic.  She looked tragic with her red eyes and her odd mismatched outfit: half street clothes and half practice clothes.
“For 25 years I danced through injuries, through changes, through days and nights.  I’ve starved myself and worked to the bone.  I never danced for fame and I sure as hell didn’t do it for money or a career. I danced for the sake of dancing,” she got quiet.  “And now I’m done.  I’m tired.  I don’t have anymore love to dance for.”
The taxi pulled up.  Daphne got in without another word to Jason.
  
He was standing frozen in the middle of sidewalk.  That wasn’t so much what he had expected to hear in the middle of the street.  And he didn’t know what he was going to do about it yet.

The Resolution
An hour before the knock on the door Daphne had sat in her darkened apartment chain smoking.  She didn’t know what she was going to do now. She had no job skills, no education.  There wasn’t a place for an emotionally exhausted dancer in the job market.  After the knock she couldn’t decide whether to answer it or not.  There was no peephole in her door, so once she opened it there was no escape from the person on the other side.

Jason waited anxiously for the door to open.  He was completely changed out of his dance clothes.  His braised cheek was throbbing again.  In one aching hand he carried a pizza and in the other a case of beer.  He hoped to win Daphne over as he waited for the door to open.

And the door did open.  Daphne cursed herself silently.  Jason released a sigh of relief.

“What do you want now?” she asked.
“I brought beer and pizza.”
“Well I can see that.”
She didn’t invite him in; she didn’t even leave the door to let him in.
“I want to talk.”

She sighed, and then she did let him in.  Free beer was a blessing to the unemployed dancer who could have barely afforded beer when she was working.  In the dark Jason blindly navigated his way to a couch.  Daphne got a bottle opener and began in on the beer.  She sat opposite him.  They sat in silence. No one touched the pizza. Daphne took notice of his cheek.

“Did you mug some one for the pizza?” she started.
“No, I had a, uh, confrontation.”
“No kidding,” she said dryly.

He told the story of the fight with Jack.  How he had gone back to tell Jack that Daphne had gone.  Both Jack and Frank had been there.  The night’s performance had been cancelled due to the tornado scare.  But Jack didn’t say a word about Daphne quitting.  Jason asked him about it.

“That slut will be back.  She always comes back begging for more,” had been his response.
Jason pulled a surprise punch.  Jack recovered quick and hit back. Mild violence ensued.
The only response he received from Daphne was a flick of her lighter.  The sheen from the fire reflected off her fresh tears.  Then the sounds of another beer opening.

“I have a secret,” he said softly.
“What are you five?” she scoffed.

She was determined to keep up her hard exterior despite that Jason already knew it was fake.

“I have followed your career since you started in Nebraska.  It’s been my dream to dance with you.”
“Another one dashed,” she said still sarcastic.

There was silence for a moment.

“How old are you anyway? I mean really.”
“I’m 27.”
She had underestimated his age by nine years, but she didn’t tell him.

“I got a late start in dance.  And I know I’m just a mediocre dancer, I will always be in the corps.  I am grateful that I get a chance to dance at all.  I’m overjoyed that I can even dance in the same company as you.  When they told me last night that I’d be dancing as your partner I thought I was in heaven.”

She was speechless for an instant.  Her whole life has been choreographed for her and now Daphne was lost.

“What do you want from me?  I mean what is it that you want me to do?”

She sounded very vulnerable.  He longed to reach out and hold her.

“I know a choreographer with a company in Denver.  They just lost their prima to San Francisco.”
Daphne kept her eyes transfixed on the floor.  If he asked her would she say yes?  Should she?  There was nothing for her here.  She had every reason to leave.  It would be the easiest thing in the world to disappear.

“The Mile High Ballet would be blessed beyond their dreams to have a dancer like you.”

“And you?”

Her second question was almost inaudible.

“There has always been a place for me there.”

They sat in silence for the better part of an hour.  The pizza became cold.  The beer warmed.   But Daphne didn’t light another cigarette and Jason never doubted what her decision would be. 

“I’ve never been to Denver,” she said at last.



Thanks for reading, if you did. Hope you didn't vomit, even I threw up in my mouth a little just skimming it. You don't have to say it's not so bad or there are worse things out there because I know. The truth is, it gets better. Not just this story, but every story. I could write something now, start something completely new, and come back to the piece in the week and make it better.

I recently found a quote I'd written out in an old notebook. I don't remember ever reading it or actually writing it down. Plus, it's Faulkner, who I hate because 11th grade forced me to read As I Lay Dying and I haven't forgiven him since, so I can't even figure out how I came across it in the first place. But it's perfect suited for me and this post and I managed to find the full thing in an interview by Jean Stein in The Paris Review, Spring 1956, No 12.

In my opinion, if I could write all my work again, I am convinced that I would do it better, which is the healthiest condition for an artist. That’s why he keeps on working, trying again; he believes each time that this time he will do it, bring it off. Of course he won’t, which is why this condition is healthy. Once he did it, once he matched the work to the image, the dream, nothing would remain but to cut his throat, jump off the other side of that pinnacle of perfection into suicide. I’m a failed poet. Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first, finds he can’t, and then tries the short story, which is the most demanding form after poetry. And, failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing. --William Faulkner

Anyway, check back tomorrow for the revised version of The Love of Dance, now called Ballerina, to see the improvements.


Friday, October 23, 2015

Art Fart Friday: Ooops! I Arted, p.2

This post was originally intended to be posted on Friday, 16 October, but I couldn't find my pictures, then I ran some errands, then I started a party that couldn't be stopped. I've done even more art in the meantime but I guess I've got to backtrack some just to keep up. Yes, let us move backwards in order to move forwards. Regression is progress, after all.

Before I get on to the art, I'd just like to say: I do not like fart jokes or potty humor, in general. Occasionally, it can be funny, but not that funny and only very occasionally. On the other hand, I love rhyming and alliteration, but hate the phrase "artsy farsty", which was the jumping off point for this series title. Also, I don't really think I contribute much to the art world and feel very uncomfortable calling myself an artist (or writer or air force brat or woman or punk or geek or any other identification term)., but I needed a title for this series of posts (Art Fart Friday) and the other series of posts (Ooops! I Arted) and this seemed clever or at least made me chuckle. And I just felt the need to clarify that as I spent a large junk of my last Art Fart Friday post talking about how hilarious the word "balls" is. On to the art!


Look ART!


And, if you remember, The Ooops! I Arted series features pieces that I'd done previously but were very drab and said pencil sketches with no life or expression. Again, I worked this piece before I thought of the blog series so the best I can manage for a before image is the gohst image that shows on the back of the page.


In case that's too difficult to see, here's a photoshopped version of the original drawing.


Yeah, my photoshopping skills and my drawing skills are pretty much on par. So as you can see my original drawing was some weird triangle girl with hearts. She had no crown but I can only assume I was making some queen of hearts or other playing card reference. There were mother scribbles on the page like poorly drawn butterflies, lips, and just general randomness. I was obviously inspired by purely by the Queen of Hearts and Alice and Wonderland bit.

The Queen of Hearts is not my favorite Alice in Wonderland character, I prefer the Mad Hatter, March Hare, or Cheshire Cat, but I'm still drawn again and again to her imagery. I've had more than one piece of work inspired by her. It was easy to pull things together, I just took out everything card and/or heart related and honestly, it came together like a dream.

Early layout test where some of the original sketch is still visible

I started with a thin coat of gesso, since I planned on using acrylics for the background but I still wanted to see the original sketching below as a guide. I used a combination of Alizarin Crimson and Cadmium Red acrylic paints mixed with matte medium, being sure to leave plenty of brush marks and ridges to add interest. I followed with pigment ink in black, being sure it caught on the ridges, and wiping away the excess.  I took a small bit of plastic grid and used it as a stencil with some modeling paste to add texture and dimension randomly on the page. I also used a stamp on the right side, a sort of fleur-de-lis flourish, to amp up even more interest.

Other elements on the page include: a silver and red heart charm (with loop removed), a piece of distressed card stock with a 3-D heart sticker + flourish, self-adhesive translucent red raindrops (that look like blood), and a mini playing card, altered from a piece of card stock.

The Red Queen is made with layered tissue paper, the red layered with hand drawn hearts, printed card stock under the skirt and tights, black netting, a heart charm, an abstract red and gold heart bead, a piece of doily, book paper, reflective red card stock, and a playing card embellishment I've had for ages and just happened to display a heart royal flush making it perfect for a crown when laid on a bit of gold doily.

My favorite part of this art journal page is the text.

Testing the text in a handwritten version. Also note the rejected heart elements lying around the workspace, making art is a messy business.

Art journaling is suppose to combine art and journals or diaries. Lots of people use them for therapy, differently than just making art, in the same way that many people keep written journals and diaries as therapy as well. However, when you watch videos and tutorials, most of the text expresses something bland and cliche, like "remember this moment" or "live, laugh, love". I mean, I suppose that may express somebody's emotions on a daily basis but I've never written anything like that in a journal. Most of my diaries are full of "fuck's" and "bullshit", vitriol and depression. So, while I pasting and placing and waiting for glue to try, I tried to think of what I should use for text.

I wanted to use something from Alice in Wonderland, in general, but specifically the Queen of Hearts if I could. However, like I said, most of my favorite lines are spoken by other characters and wouldn't really work on the page. I decided on "Off with his head!", even though it felt like a quite obvious choice. I went ahead planning where to put the words and how to make the text look (ie, stamped, handwriting, ransom style from different magazines, etc) but I kept dropping shit while I was working, a pair of scissors there, a pencil here, tiny little cut out hearts all over the damn place.... it was mad frustrating. By the time it came to writing out the text I was all full of vinegar and fuck's again. I decided on "Off with the MotherFucker's Head" because in my usage "motherfucker" is far worse than any other version of fuck. For example, I would not have been as happy with "Off with his Fucking Head" because I felt like if you were gonna say fuck that would be the expected way.

Take another look at it's full glory!
I'm very, very happy with this page. After the tissue paper page before it, it's the first page of my new experimental idea/art journal and an excellent example of burgeoning aesthetic and artistic skills. I think I'm especially proud because I took something that looked childish and lame, art I'd made but hated, and made it into something I loved.

What about you? Have you got some art, some writing you despise that you can transform? Think on it and ....