Friday, September 23, 2011

It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing

We had to write about what we loved in my Writing as Critical Thinking class. I chose to write about swing dancing... keep in mind this is unedited so there may or may not be some grammar mistakes. :)

I love swing dancing. Now, this is a recent love and addiction of mine, we have not been close for very long. Before I get too excited, let me recall my first encounter with swing dancing. I had taken a 2 hour swing dancing workshop at an International Thespian Conference. I absolutely loved swing but, it only lasted for a couple hours that one day. After that our love faded a bit. I did not have the time or opportunity to swing dance. Our real relationship started a little less than a month ago. I walked down the sidewalk and I looked by my feet to chalk that proclaimed “FREE SWING DANCING LESSONS!” This immediately sparked an interest not only in my head, but in my heart. I was so excited for the first lesson that I nearly skipped all the way from West Campus Suites to the Pershing building. The first lesson was fairly simple and The University Swingers taught us the basic step: “triple step, triple step, rock step.” The Swingers also taught us some fun ways to alter that move and make it more interesting such as the “arch out” and “cradle”. After that one lesson, the second swing dancing lesson of my entire life, I was hooked. I am not really sure how to explain our love other than to say, it was instant. Not only do I love the swing style of music like the Big Band Jazz music, I also love the classiness of it. I've always wanted to travel back in time to the 1940's and this is my momentary escape to that era. Swing dancing allows me to forget about all of my cares and problems of the world and focus on the music and the steps. When I am swing dancing, every Wednesday and Saturday, something takes over. Something more than me. Swing dancing for me is a freeing experience. This love of mine has also taught me that I have to make time for the things that I love. I am excited to continue this love affair and learn even more invaluable lessons, while of course having the time of my life.  

Monday, September 19, 2011

Poetic Relationship

Poetic relationship
One, two, three.
You call me beautiful,
 as you sip your tea.

You are incredibly sweet
yet I find myself fighting the urge to flee.
Finding it arduous to become too devoted
So emotionally branding was he.

The hours spent with you
momentarily filled my spirit with glee.
Though when you leave,
Mystification is all that resides in me.

Though timid to start anew,
This is what I see...
An extensive affair,
and maybe one day, I'll be the bird to your bee.

Poetic relationship
One, two, three.
Poetic relationship
Doh, ray, me.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Secret Beauty

     Lengthy rope-like tree roots stretch out on the ground under my dainty porcelain white feet. The bark feels rough on my smooth non-calloused skin. I look up at the familiar deep blue sky and smile. I shouldn’t be here, walking in this forest. I should be out in the real world, sitting with other girls from my social class and waiting on a handsome rich young man to ask us to dance. I had been able to slip away when the hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, began toasting and saying how thrilled they were that we could all visit their home. While everyone’s eyes were on Mr. and Mrs. Beckett I snuck away with a slight roll of my eyes at the foolishness of the whole thing.
      I keep walking forward, slowly, as to not ruin my dress—even though I’ll never wear it again. Being in high society, my family can afford these luxuries. Sometimes I find myself wishing that my family did not have luxuries at all. They are as constraining as the corset I wear now. Emotions bottled up and tucked away inside, always doing what society deems is right and not what you wish, faking polite smiles, and agreeing to consider being married to a horrid man with foul breath. All of that for pretty dresses and shiny things. That’s why I like it here, amongst the trees, all of the green leaves and bright blooming flowers surrounding me. Here nobody can tell me who to be or what to do. Here in the forest I can laugh my pig squeal laugh or sob my heart wrenching sobs. The trees, the dirt and the flowers don’t mind, and here I don’t either. There is no need to be embarrassed or play pretend.
     I pull down a rough branch to smell the beautiful flower that is resting upon it. I breathe in the sweet aroma of the violet flower and let it fill me up with its sweetness.
     “And just what do you think you’re doing here, Miss Emma Rose?” 
     My heart gives a quick leap and my eyes flutter open. I have been caught, and I had been so careful when escaping. Luckily, my catcher is none other than Charles Salvatore.
     “I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Salvatore,” I say with a stern look but a twinkle in my eye. “How did you know I was gone, might I ask?”
     “Everyone can notice when a light goes out in a room. When you disappeared, you took all the light with you.”
       He swiftly and skillfully made his way across the roots to my side, plucked the flower and tucked it behind my ear. Charles and I look at each other and laugh. He had always been a charmer, and he often tried out his new charming remarks on me.
       “What brings you out here, Rosie?” he inquired, dropping all pretense.
        “Do you really want to know, Charlie?”
         “Of course.”
         “I just had to get away from there, Charlie. I couldn’t take anymore fake smiles, gossiping women or dancing with presumptuous men. I feel as if I’m always being watched and if I didn’t leave I was going to crack.” I sigh.
           Charles looks at me with a concerned but understanding expression.
          “Do you feel better now though dear, Emma?”
          “Yes, I do, the fresh air helps the muddled mind so.”
           “Good,” he said with a mischievous smile, “Let’s explore this forest, shall we?”
           I match his smile and link arms with him.  
          “Let’s go,” I reply. Charles and I walk and talk and point things out to each other for quite some time before I notice something poking out of the ground. I inch closer to get a better view. It is shiny and metallic. I start digging with my hands at the soft dirt around the object. I lift it up, and it glitters in the sinking sunlight.
          “It sure is beautiful, isn’t it?” Charles asks in a hushed awed tone.
           I nod my head, eyes focused on the ornate hand held mirror. It is silver and slightly worn by years of use. However, it still has luster. The mirrors handle and frame is decorated with tiny silver roses and intricate designs. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. As I run my fingers along the edges I think about society and how I loathe who it’s forcing me to be. I look up slowly and realize Charles has been watching me. He takes the mirror gently from my hand and silences my feeble protest. He suggest that we should burry the mirror and come back to it occasionally.
         “It will be our little secret,” he says with a wink. I nod my head; I don’t want anyone else to know of this mirror and its beauty.”
         “But how will we know where to find it?” I query logically.
          “That is a good question, Miss Emma.” Charles ponders this question, as do I. I nervously run my fingers through my hair, and it hits something. I then remembered that Charles had tucked a flower behind my ear soon after he caught me.
        “How’s this?” I ask, holding the flower up to him.
         “Perfect.” He smiles in reply. We lean over, bury our mirror, and place the single purple flower over the mirror.


Sunday, September 11, 2011

Lonely Nights.

Longing for a familiar voice,

nobody cares to call.

Longing for a touch,

no one is near.

Longing to be held,

no open arms in sight.

Longing for a kiss,

no sweet seduction in my midst.  

Ripping Petals

He loves me
We revolve around the dance floor as one.
He loves me not
The argument is never over until he's sure he's won.
He loves me
We watch as the lightning skips across the sky.
He loves me not
He convinces himself its okay to lie.
He loves me.
I'm showered with  roses and pretty things.
He loves me not,
Holding me down, clipping my wings.
He loves me,
I love him not.