Glide, Twirl

A piece of flash fiction I wrote, inspired by this year's never ending winter (blah).

The subway car emerges from underground, crackling over the track-laid bridge, slipping over the Charles River, which is encased with ice. Native Bostonians don’t take their eyes from their NYT bestsellers to notice the view. But I look through the scratched plastic windows towards the sun setting over the river, my soul slipping down to the banks.

My feet crunch through the week-old snow, which comes up to my thighs. I shove each leg ahead, pushing against the snow, my upper body leaning forward against the chilled wind. My face is red and chapped. My fingers are tingling, the pink woolen fluff of my mittens providing little protection. I fall in once, my arms and face plunging through the crusty snow, and I struggle to right myself, brushing snow out of my eyes with the wool. It stings. I press onward.

The brink of the river meets the edge of the snow in an icy fusion. I stop. I stare into the surface. In 4th grade science, Mrs. Hall said fish could still survive in rivers that had frozen over, residing in the warmer waters near the bottom. I wonder what the fish do during the winter, all alone in the dark. I place my left foot on the ice, my right foot lingering on the snow. I push off the bank. I glide forward, leaving curvy foot trails in the thin snow overlay of the ice. I never learned to ice skate, but ice gliding is easy. Ice gliding – maybe I will pitch that idea to the people at Frog Pond. I go to my tiptoes and twirl on the ice, then glide.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

I extend my arms, elbows curved, hands above my head. I form a V with my feet, heels together, toes wide apart. I pliae. I bend my knees, then push my toes against the tips of my boots, my calf muscles thrusting me upward, away from the ice.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

The ice encasing bursts, the snow overlay exploding upward into the dimming sunlight. I flail in the water. My fingertips brush the ice but I cannot grip it. I strain for the surface. I kick towards the light. But it does not matter. I glide towards the bottom, gravity pulling me to the depths. I do not fight it. Mrs. Hall was right – it is warmer near the bottom.

The ice shards fuse together again during the cold of the night. The snow settles. I twirl with the fish.

Book Highlight - The Philosopher's Diet

I'm starting to blog a bit for the publishing house I intern for - David R. Godine, Publisher. Very cool, particularly the books they publish under their imprint, Black Sparrow Press. Here is my first post for their site! The Philosopher's Diet

Fresh Ink: Ten Takes on Chinese Tradition

When Josh (aka: my Asian historian husband) said he had scored a VIP ticket (aka: free pass) to an Asian art exhibition at the MFA, I was torn. I love the MFA mucho mucho but Asian art ranks down there with Egyptian hieroglyphics. But, being the charming wife that I am, I faked some enthusiasm and went along. Thank God, because this exhibition blew my mind.

In a nutshell, 10 Asian artists selected a work of traditional Chinese art from the museum’s collection, then created a new piece as a personal response to the original work. According to the MFA, “This exhibition is about new art inspired by old art, and the complicated relationship between innovation and tradition.” Each new piece was exhibited alongside the traditional artwork, and each section included a synopsis from the artist about his/her experience. Every single one was brilliant. Liu Xiaodong chose the ink painting Erlang and His Soldiers Driving Out Animal Spirits from the Ming Dynasty, a cruel depiction of soldiers beating colorful animals out of a twisted forest, and created an acrylic painting of nine students speaking out against violence in American schools. Qu Bing fashioned his own style of English writing whose elongated lines and harsh angles look like Chinese calligraphy at first glance. It took me a solid 5 minutes to make out the words. But my favorite was Qin Feng’s Landscape of Civilization, which responded to the Fangyi-shaped Ritual Vessel, a pottery piece from the 11th century BC, thought to be used in religious ceremonies to offer food and wine to gods. But, that’s not known for sure, which Feng plays off of. He built an entire theatrical set for the vessel. Fat, squat, accordion-style books act as the audience, with room between the aisles for spectators to squeeze in and get a better look at the ink designs on the paper. Floor-to-ceiling scrolls decorated in images with ink made from tea and coffee serve as a backdrop to the stage in the center of the room, upon which the Vessel sits enclosed in a case, its bronze turning green with ancient aging. The Vessel is the sole performer, narrating its past and the things it has seen to us and the books in the audience.

The main thing I gleaned from this was that art doesn't just take skill. It demands genius. Art is not the simple act of drizzling watercolors onto a canvas or splaying crushed glass on a mirror. Don’t misunderstand that – I am not saying that Cubism doesn’t count as an art movement. What I’m saying is, although some art might look simplistic (i.e. oversized pieces of paper hanging cluttering up a room), the artist put considerable contemplation and elbow-grease into the piece (i.e. a muti-layered visual ode to an ancient way of life). It gave me a new respect for artists. That stuff is hard work.

Now for some bad news and good news (but mainly bad). This exhibition is closed now, as we attended on the last day. BUT you can experience each piece and the ideas behind them here, no VIP pass required: Fresh Ink: Ten Takes on Chinese Tradition

Amateur Bohemian

Amateur: a. Characteristic of or engaged in by an amateur (n. a person inexperienced or unskilled in a particular activity); nonprofessional

Bohemian: n. A person with artistic or literary interests who disregards conventional standards of behavior

That’s me, Merriam-Webster style. Currently in recovery from 1.3 years in the legal field, which consumes all creative energy it comes into contact with, I’m now interning at a small indie press in Boston. Engaging in a literary environment again has inspired me to continue work on my artsy-fartsy side and writing endeavors. While paying the bills has become a bit stickier, life seems to have more of a purpose.

An article entitled How to Be Bohemian on Wikihow.com lists six steps to achieving true Bohemianism. Here’s how I match up.
1. Create art. If that means quitting your day job, do that.
- Check.
2. Know that it's your body. If you want piercings or tattoos - go for it.
- I recently got my cartilage done. A lone hole plugged with a tiny stud. Pathetic.
3. Listen to the music, read the books, watch the movies, etc. that you like.
- I’ve read the entire Twilight series. And I liked it. Interpret that as you will.
4. Challenge what you and others believe. If you have grown up with a certain belief system (religion, political view, etc.) ask yourself why you believe this.
- Growing up, I eagerly anticipated Rush Limbaugh’s Open Line Fridays. Now, Colbert is my man.
5. Become informed about other lifestyles or points of view.
- I read the news like, every day. Does that count?
6. Express yourself in some artistic way.
- Enrolled in a beginning oil painting class. The results of which only bring me anguish and self-loathing.

Blogging acts as a method of accountability for my feeble attempts to apply steps 2 through 6 – and, on particularly industrious days, to become a foodie.