Amber

Music: Art of the Human Experience

Posted on by Journal

I wanted to share a video that has resonated with me. You might have seen this clip already, but it’s worth viewing again.

Tip: you need to listen to this video with audio.

.

As the video shows, Marta Cinta Gonzalez Saldana, a professional ballerina in her youth, is carried through time and circumstance by the power of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

What I find particularly awe-inspiring in this video, is the power and fragility of the human experience, brought to plain light through music’s spell-binding power.

As the music begins to climb, Marta’s arms gracefully start to glide. The trumpets blow, Saldana’s arms rise her chin lifts, her eyes focus hard – we can’t see what Marta is seeing; it’s as if she’s in another place, another time. The movement comes to her without thought; grace, elegance, artistry. Marta becomes one with the melody, and the viewer is left to only watch and wish they could join her.

Seeing Marta’s spirit move fiercely through her frail bones so soon before her death juxtaposes what we know of life and death, strength and weakness, movement and stillness. The beauty of her artistic spirit overshadows Marta’s physical weakness.

Dr. Robert Firestone has stated that “human beings, unlike other species, are cursed with a conscious awareness of their own mortality.”

I think, perhaps, this consciousness is what make’s Marta’s final dance so poignant. The dance explores the complicated relationship between the individual, the spirit, art, and death. The dance suggests the spirit of the individual lives separate from the physical body and is immortalized through art.

Now, reader, I say this all with careful intention. I think I have left ample room within my explanation to allow for the inclusion of your belief systems. I could not say what happens after our physical deaths, but I do know that long after Marta Cinta Gonzalez Saldana has been put to rest, her art and spirit lives on through dance, art, and Swan Lake.

After all, here we are, still moved by Marta and her legacy.

“Music can also be profoundly evocative, have deep resonances, without being familiar, and without calling up specific memories. All of us have had the experience of being transported by the sheer beauty of music—suddenly finding ourselves in tears, not knowing whether they are of joy or sadness, suddenly feeling a sense of the sublime, or a great stillness within. I do not know how to characterize these transcendent emotions, but they can still be evoked, as far as I can judge, even in deeply demented (and sometimes agitated or tormented) patients. Music can bring them, if only for a little while, a sense of clarity, joy and tranquility.”

Oliver Sacks, “The power of music,” in Brain

What is the power of music?

.

It seems to me clear that physics and music are different spheres, and that though they certainly touch at moments, the connection between them is an occasional and circumstantial, not essential, one.

Anthony Storr

We listen to music with our muscles.

Friedrich Nietzsche

.

Each time you play music, it becomes new. This is one way I’ve been thinking about memory and the present, past and future times all fitting together. I called it an exquisite moment. It’s an exquisite moment because the audience and the situation of performing allows us, requires us, to think of that moment. Very often we go through life without thinking about that moment. We talk about mindfulness but we’re not very mindful, most of us.

Philip Glass

Language, colour, and music … are an ancient form of emotional technology.

Dylan Evans

.

Music doesn’t get in. Music is already in. Music simply uncovers what is there, makes you feel emotions that you didn’t necessarily know you had inside you, and runs around waking them all up. A rebirth of sorts.

Matt Haig

Music is at the centre of what it means to be human.

Malloch & Trevarthen

.

Learn More

News-clipping. Marta Cinta González Saldaña’s files via Alastair Macaulay. Find at “Who was this mysterious ballerina from the viral Swan Lake video?” CBC.ca

Learn more about the mysterious life of Marta Cinta Gonzalez Saldana

Ballerina with Alzheimer’s: The Untold Story of Marta Cinta

Balloon Farm

Posted on by Illustrated Books
Front Cover of Harvey Potter’s Balloon Farm

Harvey Potter’s Balloon Farm, written by Jerdine Nolen, is a precious book in our home. I bought Balloon Farm in the 1990s at a Scholastic book fair when I was still in elementary school.

Who doesn’t love a good book fair? The titles, the pictures, the smell of fresh paper…

As you might be able to see, my copy of Balloon Farm has become a bit worn after years of reading and re-reading.

Balloon Farm is a story about magic and imagination, told from the eyes of a young Black girl in an American-South style setting. The story is silly and charming, but the narrator is given just enough seriousness to make the child-reader wonder, “Can a balloon really grow on a plant?”

The full-page illustrations create the perfect mix of creative vibrance and narrative depth to draw in the eye. These illustrations are those that you can look over, again and again, and notice a new detail each time. Unsurprisingly, the illustrated balloons are the most memorable: it is easy to see that illustrator Mark Buehner put all their love and care into giving each balloon uniqueness, vibrancy, and personality.

Back Cover of Harvey Potter’s Balloon Farm

This book is such a favourite in our household that we used Harvey Potter’s Balloon Farm as inspiration when our local library put on their Edible Book Contest.

The Edible Book Contest is a fun challenge for book lovers. The concept is simple: choose your favourite book and create a diorama representing that book solely out of edible goods. For example, I have seen Rapunzel in her tower made from cake and long strands of licorice; J.R.R. Tolkien’s dragon moulded out of fondant; a portrait Garfield “painted” out of M&Ms and “glued” with cake icing.

When all the dioramas are finished, you may vote for a winner if you please. But, the best part of the contest is when the dioramas are shared, eaten, and enjoyed by all. The Edible Book challenge can also be done at home among siblings, cousins, or even as a book club activity!

Edible Book Content diorama inspired by
Harvey Potter’s Balloon Farm

Now, I admit, I am not much of a baker. My cake pops certainly did not win any baking accolades.

But my family and I enjoyed working together and making an edible-version of Harvey Potter’s Balloons. Even if they weren’t much to look at, they were delicious.

Harvey Potter’s Balloon Farm is a must-find at your local library.


Harvey Potter’s Balloon Farm

Written by Jerdine Nolen
Illustrated by Hark Buehner

My Little Pony: Ponyville Mysteries

Posted on by Comic Recommendations

Written by Christina Rice.
Artwork by Agnes Garbowska and others.




Synopsis: The Cutie Mark Crusaders are on the case, solving crimes nopony else can! Will they be able to discover who’s behind the local mysteries, like the theft of supplies from Ponyville hospital or the ransacking of the bowling alley? Most importantly, can they crack the case and get their homework done at the same time?

The My Little Pony comic books are simply charming. The stories mirror what you would find in the animated series: lessons in friendship and personal growth, with a little mischievousness and humour mixed in.

The comic itself is vibrantly coloured and full of life. The layout, panels, and text styles are uncomplicated, which offers an age-appropriate reading experience for younger readers.

Still, the colours and character designs work together excellently to create depth through the interesting and descriptive visuals.

One of my favourite things about the comic book is the ability of the visuals to inform the dialogue, which is a great reading tool for younger readers.

There was a point for my young reader when they found many of the levelled reading books for their age to be too easy (and sometimes too predictable!), while finding many of the child-audience novels to be too overwhelming.

We found the comic book to be a great in-between – dialogue that was still challenging their reading skills, vibrant visual media that helped inform their reading comprehension, and stories that could keep their fragile interest!

There are many different comics in The My Little Pony series – I can’t wait to read the next one!

My Little Pony: Ponyville Mysteries

Written by Christina Rice
With art by Agnes Garbowska

Hiatus

Posted on by Journal

Hello all,

If you’ve been here before, I’m sure you’ll have noticed my extended absence. While I’d like to have some exciting news or intriguing excuse for my lack of posting, the truth is just that life has been busy. It’s a lame excuse, I know, but any other alternative would be an outright lie. I had high hopes for returning to a regular posting schedule, until COVID. I am sure you’re sick of hearing about it. With my children home, on top of my previous obligations, there seemed to be less and less time. If you’re unsure why having your children at home can hinder your personal work, I suggest you read Virginia Wolf’s essay, “A Room of One’s Own.” If you’re a parent yourself, I’m sure you understand. I’d also like to tell you that COVID stressors pushed me to reflect and write more than ever before, but that too would be a lie.

So, allow me to touch base. It’s been a year. Work is changing. I have some academic projects that I am working on finishing. I am also working on some exciting creative projects. This has been my first summer with a greenhouse, and it has been a learning experience. I made the mistake of planting sugar pumpkins inside the greenhouse – I now have four mature plants growing out of the windows and spilling into the yard.

The front yard is dedicated to an array of wildflowers, and some of the tallest sunflowers I’ve ever grown. At 9-10 feet, they are hitting my porch roof and setting off the front sensor every two minutes. I’ve been lucky enough to visit my family this summer and do some local travelling. Unsure of what the upcoming year will hold, I’ve done my best to keep this summer busy and exciting for my kids (safely, of course).

Soon these pumpkins will become a pie when autumn inevitably comes ‘round. Until then, stay safe and have a wonderful summer.

Unplanned

Posted on by Short Stories

I was on the first bus to the nearest city. My parents wouldn’t be stopping for lunch for at least two more hours. I kicked myself for not driving my own car. But sweetheart, by car-pooling we can spend more time together as a family. The combination of fresh snow and crisp sunlight made it a perfect day for skiing. I could reach the drugstore and get back to the resort before my parents would think to check on me. The old bus creaked and groaned as it rolled down the white-capped roads. I picked at the threading of the old, discoloured seat.

Rows of advertisements, each with frayed edges and faded graffiti, covered the roof above the rows. A skinny blonde woman stared at me, “A beautiful new you! Try laser hair removal today!” Two white men in business suits asked, “Too much debt? The Bentley Brothers can find a consolidation plan that works for you.” A dark-haired woman lay unconscious on a couch, above her read: “Sexual assault is preventable. Remember, consent is sexy.” A heavily pregnant woman stood, her face blurred, her baby’s silhouette highlighted in golds and reds, and printed above her: “Protect them from harm. Think before you drink.” I looked away and fiddled with my phone.

I stepped off the bus with the hoard of people, jostled by overdressed parkas impatient to shop the ritzy downtown. Quickly I made my way avoiding eye contact with strangers as I searched for memorized street names. I came upon a man handing out flyers on the sidewalk. Casually I attempted to pass him, but he thrust a paper into my hand. I took it, quickly shoving it into my pocket. The closest drugstore was tucked away from the main drag, sandwiched in-between a liquor depot and a run-down dental center advertising payment plans – luckily, it was quiet. As I scanned the aisles, I tried to shake my feelings of shame and guilt. You’re an adult woman who has sex – that’s okay, I reminded myself. There it is. “Family Planning,” always conveniently located at the end of the baby product aisle: pacifiers, sippy cups, bibs, tampons, pads, lube, cock rings, pregnancy tests. The condoms were secured behind a locked plastic box. I grabbed a test, hiding it behind my elbow until I reached the till. The cashier said nothing, but I felt as if her expression was enough. No bag or receipt, I stashed the test in my purse and hurried back to the bus stop.

The drive back to the resort felt unbearably slow. I seized a window seat, successfully avoiding the stare of the advertisements, but the bus was full of bodies. Wealthy skiers who spent their mornings emptying their pockets littered the floor with shopping bags. They talked loudly of the good deals, the good food, the good liquor – many of them already feeling the warm distortion of their morning’s indulgence. The man beside me read a newspaper, occasionally brushing my arm with the soft paper corners. In bold letters, “The Battle of Abortion, Ohio legislation classifies birth-control as abortionists,” faced me from the front page. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

The flow of bodies from the bus poured loudly into the lobby of the resort. I hadn’t taken many steps before my name was called. It was my Mother; how glad she was to learn I was feeling well enough for a walk. Now I could join my family for a celebratory dinner, in honour of my cousin’s acceptance into law school. I’ve heard “La Délicieuse” at the resort here makes a wonderful bourguignon.

Dinner was trying. Between the weight of my bag, the gloss of the fish eggs on my cousin’s sushi, and the sight of my Uncle’s escargot, my appetite had abandoned me.

“Thank you all for joining us,” my Uncle began, “We are so pleased to celebrate Johnathon’s academic success during this year’s family holiday. Please join me in giving our son a congratulatory toast, and well wishes for the upcoming school year.” Cheers. Congratulations.

“Well done Johnathon,” my Mother chimed in, “Adam must be so excited for you, has he been accepted into any schools as well?” 

“I think not!” My Uncle scoffed. 

“Well!” Interjected my Aunt, “Adam has dropped out of school. You see, he is going to be a father!” Johnathon looked down into his lap but remained quiet. “Yes, very disappointing, so much promise. When Adam found out his long-term girlfriend was expecting, he started looking for work.”

“Foolish,” my Uncle rumbled. “Can he even be sure it’s his?”

I attempted to tune them out. I wondered about the conversations around me, between the other families and lovers, what kinds of news they had to share. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a white piece of paper poking out my pocket. The flyer. Under the table, I carefully unravelled it. The Virgin Mary, her arms cradling a bloody and deformed infant, bore into my eyes and said onto me, “Unborn lives matter. Saint Mary’s Church is here.” I was going to throw up.

My Uncle’s deep voice interrupted my stupor, “Nonsense Johnathon, I don’t believe one girl’s thoughtlessness should ruin Adam’s life. What about his future? Too many young people these days are irresponsible, expecting others to fix their problems, crying for free healthcare, welfare, and whatever else. Adam needs to confirm paternity at the very least.” 

I had enough. I excused myself from the table, sighting my upset stomach. I grabbed my purse and headed for the sanctuary of my room. Suddenly, my purse felt as if it weighed nothing – I nearly ran. I barreled into the empty hotel room and straight into the bathroom, ripped the foil packing off that tiny, life-changing stick, and put it in-between my trembling legs. For five minutes, I stared transfixed on it, as if it were soaked in gold. At last, the result appeared: negative, I was not pregnant.

Thank God.

Unplanned, written by Amber Rose.

Hello readers!

I wrote Unplanned as part of a short-fiction challenge. I considered revising the work now that I am equipped with the benefit of hindsight, but I decided to share it with you as it was submitted 10 minutes before the challenge deadline.

Let me tell you a bit about the challenge: this particular challenge is run by NYC Midnight. The writer is given forty-eight hours to write a story of 1000 words in a particular genre. However, the writer does not learn of the story’s genre, the assigned location of the story, and a must-use item to include in the story, until the beginning of the forty-eight hour countdown.

Unplanned is a political satire which investigates and mocks the social attitudes of what it means to be female, and the political consequences of an unplanned pregnancy.

Secret

Posted on by Journal

Dear reader, may I tell you a secret?

I have always had a slight fear of writing – that what I will have created in words may somehow come true, like a wish or a spell. Call it superstitious, call it unfounded, call it irrational, but this fear of mine was real.

Growing up, I noticed how often we were encouraged to conceptualize our goals, dreams, and fears into words;

We write down our goals, to help us achieve them.
We write down our fears, to help us realize them.
We write down our feelings, to help us navigate them.
We write down our love, to help us share it.
We write down our grief, to help us overcome it.
We write down our dreams, to help us glimpse into our subconscious.
We write down our memories, so we may never forget them.
We write down our thoughts, so we may discover who we are and what we want.
We write down our stories, so that they may never die.
We are told to be careful of “what we wish for” when we speak harshly, and that we will get back in life what we choose to put into it.

Reader, can you fault me for being afraid of writing art and weaving spells?

I believe Margaret Atwood’s “Spelling” illustrates the power of words and the immense importance of writing the truth – the truth of our fears and desires – no matter it’s “ugliness” or refusal to be lovely and quaint.

After all,

A word after a word  
after a word is power.

At the point where language
falls away from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.

Margaret Atwood

Please, read the rest of Atwood’s “Spelling.”

“Spelling,” and many other provoking works are collected in the Literature by Women anthropologies. I do not receive any sort of compensation for recommending the work; the volumes truly contain great writings. 

Happy Reading

Ode to the Mother

Posted on by Journal

.

Ode to the Mother

She is born, that babe in arms,
And I see in her myself; my love,
my life.
I see in her the ancestral child,
And I realize that I am she, and she is me-
My baby and I.

And I, her mother,
The ancestral mother:
Like my mother who bore me,
And the mother who held she,
I realize that I am my mother, and my mother is me.

.

.

I was moved to write “Ode to the Mother” when my maternal grandmother became terminally ill. I watched my mother care for her and found myself both moving ahead in time and falling back into my memories. Being third in four successive generations of women, I could not help but feel my place in the cyclical nature of time and family.

“Ode to the Mother” came from a place of love and a place of loss. After all, being a mother is a never-ending cycle of embracing new joys while we are forced to let go of others.

.

Below I have attached a link to a clip from the movie Storks, “The Maternal Instinct.” It is a short and charming look at what I refer to as the cyclical nature of motherhood.