Masquerade, paper faces on parade

This song has been ringing through my head ever since I heard what the sermon series for the month of October will be at our church. =)  The title "Masquerade" sends me off into the famous scene from "Phantom of the Opera," picturing the fancy costumes and elaborate dances.  Movie scenes and images from classic stories all meld together into some fanciful idea of a masked ball that has always made me want to attend one--clearly I have forgotten my complete inability to dance and the total lack of that kind of culture in my social circles. =) But, hey, a girl can dream, right?

Anyway, in my mind, I have always pictured these balls as a type of amalgam of "Phantom" and Poe's "The Masque of Red Death." I suppose that is because underneath all the gaiety and fun of adults in fancy dress dancing the night away, there always seemed something slightly sinister about the whole idea. Some would call that the romance of the idea, I guess--not really knowing absolutely who anyone is.  Modern recreations of the masquerade ball have tended to lose a bit of the complete anonymity that they used to bring.  Everyone was masked, and no one was supposed to remove his mask until the proper time, usually midnight. Costumes were closely-guarded secrets that, often, only one or two people in one's own party knew.  And, of course, if you have read very much classic mystery fiction (thank you, Agatha Christie), you are aware how often the change or replication of a costume was used as a plot device to carry out some evil deed. Someone could carry out a heist or even murder someone without being missed or recognized, or all suspicion could be laid on someone else in an identical costume.

What is my point, you ask?

Today, we are often told that we need to be authentic and real with the people around us, but as someone who has spent her entire adult life struggling with depression, I can personally attest to how difficult this is.  Some days, it just seems easier to smile and say everything is fine, to keep working when you want to crawl away and hide, to pretend than risk rejection or misunderstanding.  As a freshman in high school, I was having a very difficult time fitting in and feeling like I belonged--in the school and church and social circle I had grown up in.  I was intrigued by acting and begged my mom to let me join the church drama team.  Now, I am well aware of the bad rap that church drama has given itself over the years, and how poorly the concept has adjusted to a changing culture.  However, for me, in the 1990s, it was a life-saver.  I, ironically, found myself by being other people.  It may have been that I had simply finally found something I was good at, but I was a different person on stage and in character.  Unfortunately, my difficulty came from being unable to translate that to real life.  I only knew who I was when I was acting.

When I went away to college, I lost this aspect of my life--and, I might add, it just about broke me.  I had no outlet for the emotions and frustrations I had formerly been venting through my other characterizations.  I desperately longed to get involved in theater at school, but I was paralyzed by auditioning.  You see, I didn't practice well with others because I didn't know how to moderate my performance for rehearsal.  I scared people because I was the girl who was constantly injured or bleeding from throwing herself in a role, even during practice.  On stage, I was just as intense.  I didn't act the role; I became that character.  It was my only release, my sanity.  

All the stress finally came to a head in my senior year, when I finally began to realize what was wrong with me.  It had never occurred to me that I might have inherited the familial tendency for depression; I just thought I was stupid and lazy and a big fat failure.  I asked my mom, who has the same problem--I know, another indication we missed, right?--to get me an appointment with her doctor when I came home for Christmas that year.  I will never forget that day--December 18, 2003; it was truly a turning point in my life.  I began taking antidepressants that day.

The doctor told me it could take up to 2 weeks to know if they were going to work, but it only took 3 days. In three days, my whole life changed.  I could get ready for class without feeling like I was dragging a 2-ton weight out the door.  I could talk to other people without being terrified.  I could be around my family without dissolving into fights every 5 minutes.  I could make friends, go to work, teach.  Basically, I could live.  My college friends were shocked at the complete change in me, and people who had known me my whole life were almost suspicious at the sudden turn-around.  

You are probably wondering what this has to do with masquerade balls.  Well, my whole life had become like one big masquerade.  I had to spend so much energy just trying to function and get through the days that I didn't have anything left for self-discovery or development.  So, I had discovered it was simpler to be the person that the situation needed.  No one ever saw the real me because that was too difficult to deal with.  I had my standard go-to identities I pulled out as needed: student, friend, employee, church kid...  I had worn masks for so long that I couldn't remember what was real anymore.  I was 23 years old, and had absolutely no idea who I was.  I had one real friend, my family, and a stranger looking back from the mirror.

The past 10 years have taught me a lot about myself:  I'm insanely stubborn; I am fiercely independent; I love to learn (mostly because I just like being smart); I'm creative; I still have difficulty making friends; I'm still clueless about guys (arent' we all, though?); etc.  I've learned many things I am not.  But mostly, I have learned how to recognize when I start fitting a mask on.  Do I always choose authenticity? I wish I could say I do, but I'm still human; and humans have a long history of hiding.  But, I am learning, and getting better, and discovering more each day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't often re-post poems on here, but this one was simply too appropriate.

Masquerade

Bow

Spin

Turn

One by one,

We take our places,

Twirling and bending,

Dancing around the room,

Safe behind our masks.

Dip

Reach

Step

Midnight approaches.

Slowly, we weave

Across the floor,

Moving toward discovery,

Toward You.

Stand

Sway

Twirl

Maskless,

You enter the floor,

We stare at Your beauty.

The chimes ring:

One---

Bow

--Kari Yerton

10/30/2010

The one I need to clarify....

I was just going to post the poem below without any kind of an introduction, but it suddenly occurred to me that it might need some background information. :)

First of all, let me clarify for anyone who is still confused after reading the poem: I. Am. Not. Pregnant.

Thank you. :)

Keep reading...

I wrote this poem at the end of a nine-month program that I was a part of a few years ago.  As the year was winding down, I was thinking back over the changes that had happened in mine and everyone else's lives during that time period, and it suddenly occurred to me how similar it was to the nine-month period of pregnancy.  So, I grabbed a pen and started scribbling; what came out of it is what you'll read below. This is the first time I have really shared this poem because I was unsure that others would appreciate the analogy.

That being said....

9 months

Unexpected--

Unplanned--

Accidental--

Then,

Nine months

Months of pain--

Months of sickness--

Weeks and days of sorrow

And exhaustion--

Feeding from us--

Growing in us--

This new life has

Consumed us for

Nine months. 

Now the urgency comes--

Push!--

Breathe!--

Work!--

It all comes down

To one final act. 

Do we run away,

Abandon this piece of us,

Or with pride

And resolve, 

Pick up the new life

And carry it into

Tomorrow?

5/2011

In which things get a little spicy...

As a natural-born collector, I spent most of my childhood as the bane of my poor mother's existence.  She--hyper-organized, neat-freak that she is--was constantly attempting to get me to sort through my "treasures." Thankfully, those tendencies faded a bit with age, but I still love a good collection! 

So, today, I am introducing you to one of my favorite things....my collection of salt & pepper shakers.

Most of them are vintage, but I do have several new ones as well that have been given to me over the years, or that I just loved too much to pass by (Thank you so much for that, Cracker Barrel!).

Some of them have background stories--like the quirky pair of busts below that I talked myself out of buying for six months before giving in to temptation--but most have been happy finds while junking in stores all over the country.

The style that got me started collecting is the kind that has the vegetables in some sort of container, usually a leaf or basket.

I have also have several that have been passed down to me through the family.  The cows belonged to my paternal great-grandmother, and four of my sets were from my maternal grandma.

I only actually use one of the pairs on a daily basis.  The reproduction jadeite set below was my very first set and is the one I use all the time.  I grew up using the Pepsi-Cola bottles, and saved them from my mom's sudden need to purge the kitchen a couple of months ago.

The five-piece set of spice jars above was my grandmother's and probably is what inspired this deep love of mine.  She had a small shelf running around the top of her kitchen walls that she filled with salt & pepper sets and little knick-knacks her family had brought her from different trips.  When my mom and her sisters were cleaning out Grandma's house, I asked if I could have the stuff from that shelf if no one else wanted it.  I think they all thought I was a little crazy, but those little pieces of kitch had fascinated me as a child.  Having them in my kitchen in almost like having a little bit of Grandma & Grandpa around.

Hope you enjoyed my Show & Tell!

The Radio Room

In my last post (Two posts in less than a month! Can you believe it?), I mentioned how I've been sorting through old files form my college days.  Here is another essay I wrote for one of my writing classes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Radio Room

After greeting my grandma, I slip out of the back room where Mom and she are talking and walk to the other end of the house.  I pass through the kitchen and living room and step out on the porch; however, I am not coming to visit Pepper, as the little dog is obviously hoping.  Instead, I open the door on the left side of the porch and step up into a small room.  Closing my eyes and concentrating, I can still smell the combination of oil and Old Spice cologne.  This room may look differently than it did a few years ago, but it still holds the essence of the man who once occupied and loved it.  Before his death, I spent hours in here with him, playing and talking and listening to him talk.  He was my Grandpa Tapp, and I’m standing in his old radio room.

The room is positioned in the center of his domain of the house between his bedroom and his porch, and I would estimate that 75% of his indoor life was spent in these three rooms.  As the room is in the back corner of the house, it has two doors connecting it to both his bedroom and porch.  The porch stands lower than the rest of the house; therefore, a large step provides access to the radio room.  Faux-brick linoleum with its turned-up corners and rolled edges still covers the floor.  Although it is now filled with bookshelves and plant stands, two years ago the room was overflowing with metal shelving units.  Standing in the doorway between the porch and the old room, I stop to think about how it looked two years ago.

The room is not very large, maybe only 12’x10’, and he had every available inch of it crammed full of radios, batteries, microphones, light bulbs, and whatever else he could find a spot for.  His large chair, where he sat to call out on his radio, stood directly in the center of the room with its back to the porch door.   The only other seating the room could offer was an old, decrepit thing slumped in front of the window to my right.  I say “slumped,” for it was perpetually drowning in an ever-growing collection of papers and abandoned tools.  Grandpa’s acquired mass of forgotten items covered the whole floor of the room and most of the walls and shelves.  Besides the length of shelves and radio paraphernalia that faced where I am now standing, he also had the corner to my right filled with three metal shelving units, two shoved into the corner and one mounted on the wall directly beside the door.  These were overflowing with his collection of National Geographic and Reader’s Digest magazines.  From these corner shelves to the radio wall and all around the old chair, the floor was piled high under mountains of papers and tools under which there was always a liberal sprinkling of birdseed from Grandpa’s bringing Amadeus, his pet cockatiel, into the heated room during the winter.

On the wall opposite this hoard of paper, the floor area was relatively clean.  Directly beside his radio shelves, in the corner, the trap door to the cellar forced a no-pile zone.  On the wall were hung various certificates and photographs he had accumulated down through the years and a medicine cabinet that mostly contained screwdrivers and nuts and bolts.  The only interruption in this wall was a doorway in the other corner which stepped down into his bedroom.  A lone throw rug covering the worn area in front of this door gave testimony of his love for this disheveled corner of the house.

After his death, Grandma cleared out the room, giving away most of the equipment to her only son.  Thus, this room is always closed off now, for no one uses it anymore.  In fact, I may be the only person that regularly intrudes upon its calm.  I still love to go in and sit on the floor listening to the quiet and remembering the hours I spent in there with Grandpa.  His shelves and radios may be all gone now, but even through the books and plant stands Grandma has put in there, the room still seems to be waiting for him.  

Friend-Losing: A How-To

You know how it goes: you change computers and back-up files, but don't remember what they contain or what program opens them. So, years later, you open a memory stick or disk to discover all items contained are from some ancient, forgotten file-type that nothing is able read. =)

This is the problem I've been trying to fix lately; I've been clearing out my external hard drive with all its old files from as far back as my college days (and before).  Re-formatting all of these old papers in my pack-rat tendency to keep every school paper I've ever written (Thanks for that, Mom.) has reintroduced me to some little gems from my scholastic endeavors. haha  Of course, as an English Education major, I wrote more papers in college than most people dread writing in their entire lives. 

As a kick-start to this poor, neglected blog of mine, I'm going to post a few of them on here.  It's been a laugh for me; hopefully, it will be for you, as well.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Friend-Losing: A How-To

            Many people would probably say that losing a friend is a simple thing to do.  This misconception comes from their accidentally stumbling across a specific path of action.  The art of friend-losing is very technical, but can become natural if practiced long enough.

            The first step to losing a friend is to lay the foundation for a rocky relationship.  This can be accomplished in several ways, but the most effective method would be to use all these ways in tandem.  Make sure that you seldom, if ever, confide in your friend; keep your secrets secret.  Remember that you are the expert…in everything.  Always one-up your friend’s stories or memories, and you should correct your friend often, preferably in public.  Finally, fight to have your way all the time.  What good is sharing?

            The second part to ridding yourself of this person is to cause a problem of some kind.  This, however, is the most delicate stage because the problem must appear to have been caused by the other person.  A good way to start is to lie to your friend, or, at the least, keep the truth to yourself.  If possible, date the person your friend is interested in or steal a promotion from them.  Tell your friend that you are crushed and shocked by the quandary you are in, but do not, by any means, get out of the relationship.  As time progresses, begin to tell people what your friend is doing to you.  Make it look like your friend is trying to ruin your life.  Do not let your friend ever see you upset about the situation--even if your friend dissolves into sobbing tears.  Always act like nothing is wrong.  As a last stab, be sure that your side of the story makes the gossip circle before your friend’s; this assures your friend will appear guilty and petty.

            After you have laid the foundation and caused your problem, it is time to close the deal.  Now that you have spoiled your friend’s reputation and probably made this person almost hate you, you must act stunned by the turn of events.  You must look more than innocent.  Absolute horror is the best attitude for this stage.  Cling to your friend as if you are terrified that the friendship will end.  Drag the misery out as long as the dead relationship will last; make your friend feel horribly guilty for wanting to get out of the relationship and away from you.  If a holiday is near, buy your friend sentimental gifts that will always bring back memories of you and this friendship.  Follow your friend around all the time, forcing your friend to be rude in order to get away.  Be shocked and hurt when your friend gets angry and retaliates or rails back at you.  After a sufficient time of playing the victimized innocent, tell your friend, “I forgive you,” for the problem that you, yourself caused. 

            This last act of selfishness should seal the death certificate of this friendship.  Do not be discouraged if your particular friendship takes longer than you expected to kill.  Some relationships have been known to last for several years before the foundation was strong enough for stage two, and every now and then a friend will endure the punishment of problem after problem before closure can come.  However, sooner or later, this fool-proof method will always obtain the desired end--you will lose your friend.

A recipe....sort of...

Well, I never thought that I, of all people, would be posting a recipe on here, but the photo garnered such a response on Facebook that I thought I would share what I did. =)  So, here goes

My (totally not really a recipe) recipe.

I'm sorry it's not a better picture,
but I didn't take it with the intention of posting it.
And, yes, the plate is sitting on my lap. =)

Bacon-wrapped Raspberry Chicken

Ingredients
Boneless Chicken Tenderloins
Bacon
Raspberry Salsa (This is my all-time favorite!)
Olive oil

Heat olive oil in a frying pan.
Wrap each chicken strip in a strip of bacon.
After chicken has cooked a few minutes, baste the top with Raspberry Salsa.  When you flip the strips during cooking, baste the other side.

Roasted Asparagus

Ingredients
Fresh Asparagus
Olive oil
Seasoned Salt

Wash asparagus and cut off the bottom tips.
Place in baking dish.
Drizzle with olive oil and shake the dish to roll the asparagus in the oil, coating it.
Sprinkle with Seasoned salt.
Bake until tender. (I think I baked them for 10 minutes at 350.)


That's all. Enjoy!

Dancing with imagination

The over-excitement with my finally found poetry notebook continues....So sorry if I'm boring you. =)


Creation

A sculptor at his block,
An artist with his brush--
A writer's scratching pen,
A farmer's tending hands--

Incarnation all around us--
Divinity, worshiped intrinsically,
Shines out of creation
Bringing me to my knees.

Oh! We are wonderfully made!
You, beautiful One, surround us,
Piercing through our world,
Dancing with imagination.

Only One of all creativity
Can deserve such adoration!
Designing, shaping, speaking--
Inspiration flows from Inspiration.

K. Yerton
03/2003