An Excerpt

Grey rubber erasers and green pencils with silver tops sit beside her. Both utensils smell strongly of graphite, and the pencil tips vary from perfectly pointed to dull and done. One sits between her fingers and palm; it presses against the plain white paper, gliding to and fro with quick, graceful motions. A few flicks upwards, two or three circular motions, some shading around the bottom and an image starts to unfold. Every now and then, she’ll sit back and give a judging look at her drawing. She’ll ask herself it it’s right, if it’s what she wants to replicate from her mind’s image. This immerging artist slaves over her craft, earnestly trying to perfect her technique and style.

All of this happens in a small studio with cold tile floors covered in fallen paint. It’s 1973 and Karen is a junior in college. Her long brown locks, straight as a board, are swept up backwards by a bandanna. Her feet are bare; she discarded her leather sandals by her worn book bag. And as this young woman scribbles and doodles her way to a finished display of her own imagination, Emmylou Harris sings from the radio. The song fits the place; the title “Boulder to Birmingham” sweeps around Karen’s ears as she works on the University of Colorado campus in Boulder, Colorado. It’s the only Emmylou song she’ll remember from her days as an art student. But she’s a fool for the female singer-songwriter; the folk songs of Miss Harris’ future will be Karen’s fuel for the creativity that guides her soul.

"weird"

The definition of weird is not something that I would have thought it to be.

adj. : suggesting something supernatural or uncanny.
informal: very strange, bizarre

Did you know that the adjective in Middle English meant to control someone's destiny...

Well, I don't know if me being bizarre, uncanny and very strange will allow me to control someone's destiny... but the day isn't over yet.

This all came about as I walked back from the shower this morning. I'm slip, slip sliding back to my room in my shower shoes and my wet hair is sticking this way and that and I run into Chloe, my across-the-hall neighbor. Today is her one year anniversary with her boyfriend, so as I open the door to my room, I begin to wish her a happy anniversary. Midsentence, however, I remember my napping roommate. I get out "Happy Anniv--" at a normal volume, and then switch to whispering "--ersary!" and she says "Oh thank you!" at a normal volume, straight into the open door, towards sleeping roommate's ears. I try my best to interrupt her with "My roommate is sleeping!" in a stressed, whispered voice, and she catches on saying "Whoops!" in a whisper, as she walks to her room. Now that I properly corrected my napping-roommate ediquette and informed Chloe of Amy's current state, I continued on into my room and shut the door. It is only as I close the door, however, that I realize that as I spoke to Chloe, my eyes were glancing downwards towards the floor. I had my head tilted towards my room to suggest Amy's presence, and my voice was lowered to indicate the necessity of being quiet, but instead of making eye contact with the person I was conversing with, my eyes were instead pointed toward some random stretch of carpet.

I scream in my own head, What?! Am I crazy?! I must have looked like some contorted, bizarre, very strange individual in a towel with wet hair whisperig crazily about my napping roommate... I'M WEIRD.

I immediately decided this was worth blogging. I pulled out my chair to sit down at my computer, and had to dodge the 5 pairs of shoes sitting around my desk in order to take my place in front of the screen without stumbling. Shoes everywhere, wet hair, crazy looks, sleeping roommates, a towel, a scared across-the-hall neighbor and a living definition of weird.

It's just another day in the life of Anne Taylor.

Spring Fever

I would like a scientist to explain to me the process of how and when the grass will turn lush green. I had it explained to me yesterday morning that the trees won't bud until it is above freezing at night, but it's April and shouldn't it be warming up? 45 degree weather in the middle of this month just doesn't suit me.

The weather here is completely foreign to me. I am convinced that New England is very confused about it's weather patterns.

Maybe I daydream too much about sun dresses, bronze skin, bare feet and cowboy hats. Maybe dancing in the sand and a sunset after 7pm is too much to ask of Masschusetts.

Meh.

anna begins to change her mind

I've always wanted to have a soundtrack to my life. Do you know what I mean? There are those moments in life where the power of life would put you over the edge if the theme music would kick in at just the right moment. You're walking along the beach and you'd love to hear a soft acoustic guitar strum your heart strings. You're standing on top of a mountain and the trumpet's mighty call would be perfection. You're driving along an American highway with the windows down and a good folk song, with a twang and a fiddle, would bring the world back.

anna begins. round here. holiday in spain. mr. jones. miami. up all night.

We're talking over dinner and we come to the conclusion that life is best when it is simple. We realize that simplicity is a beautiful gift. We chomp down on parmesan encrusted french fries and wrap our lips around scallops. We hold hands in front of the waiter. He orders for me. And life can't get any better than year 19. Or so it seems.

Until it's 1am and someone decides that Counting Crows is a necessity.

I can't describe to you what living two different lives is like. I'm sure some of you have an idea. It's similar to time travel. And the stress in my shoulders is from being hit with one of those cartoon anvils. When the flight back to Boston approaches, I get flattened into the ground out of nowhere. I'm sad. I'm sentimental. I ask so many questions.

But I'm starting to think that if simplicity is a gift, and if sometimes God blesses us with those storybook moments in lofts with one light and Counting Crows, then the race is worth running. That reinflating my body after throwing the anvil out of the Anne-shaped hole in the ground has to be done. I go about living. I go about dreaming. I go on seeking the moments in life where joy is no longer just a muscle movement on my face but the very blood that courses through my veins.

"Come on baby. Let's go shut it down in New Orleans..."