with her hands.

Creativity can be a funny thing.

At least for me, who goes through periods of creative floods and droughts. Sometimes my mind is there but deep down I have nothing to say. Other times there is so much to express but I simply can't engage my communication skills. It almost feels like to produce anything truly wonderful, the stars of my inner solar system must be perfectly aligned. And at the rate I've been going lately, I think Hailey's Comet is headed here sooner.

One of the strangest things has been happening to me lately. Instead of turning to words, my usual modus operandi for creative outlet, I can only find interest in the physical world -- I just want to create something with my hands.

I'm not writing poems. I'm not writing stories. I'm not writing thoughts. I'm not writing grocery lists. All I can dream about is refinishing hardwood floors, reupholstering chairs, learning to make pottery, cutting a friends hair and painting elaborate patterns onto just about any surface that is non-textured, boring looking and my landlord won't be angry about.

I'm not sure what has brought about this change of direction but I must admit it is a part of me that I am excited to explore. I've always been, at least to myself, Olivia the writer. But now I get to dabble with Olivia the carpenter, Olivia the designer, Olivia the artist?

Perhaps you can expect more pictures posts on this blog soon enough. :)

fit tonic.

Just a quick little promotion to my work blog, Fit Tonic. It's all about fitness and being in the outdoors. I'm still getting started with it but add it to your list of places to stop in from time to time. Some of the information is local to Hampton Roads, but often times it's universal too!

http://hamptonroads.com/blogs/fit-tonic

new in norfolk.

It's been about a month and I have gotten quite settled into my life here in Norfolk. Just as I felt during my short stays in London and the Poconos, moving always brings about a brief intermission, but soon enough you are settled down in the rhythm of life.

Wake up. Shower. Cereal. Stairs. Car. Desk. Desk. Desk. Lean Cuisine. Desk. Desk. Desk. Car. Stairs. Sneakers. Stairs. Pavement. Pavement. Stairs. Water. Balcony. Dinner. Book. Sink. Bed.

I've been quite deliberate about keeping my pace of life slow here. After hitting on 8 cylinders 24-hours a day my last few years of college, the workplace is really quite relaxing. Especially right now, as I am probably the youngest person at the Pilot by about 6 years, am still new to the place, and expectations seem to be low. I'll give them full throttle when they're ready.

My little life in Norfolk is mostly quiet -- except for a few exceptions when I find myself sharing too many drinks with my new friends.

I think it's nice to live alone.

When you live alone, every action you take can be completely selfish, and there is nobody there to object. You also sleep so soundly because when you are ready for bed, your little environment goes to bed too. The food is always exactly what you wanted -- though there are always leftovers, which can get a little annoying. The hair in the drain is always your own and there is nobody to bother you should you choose to watch some low-brow television show about Hollywood's Top 50 gorgeous men.

Bliss.

The only thing I don't like so far are the bills.

Booooo.

greeting cards.

In the era of e-mail, instant messaging, cell phones and Twitter, many have remarked that we're losing the art and affection of handwritten letters. Somehow a quick e-mail banged out in 12 point Arial just doesn't hold the same weight as a carefully chosen greeting card, engraved with flawed handwriting and marked with an autograph at the end (bonus points if it's barely legible.)

Since I was in high school, I have saved every single greeting card that has been given to me. I think that there is just something so intensely personal and thoughtful about sending a real greeting card these days, that I just can't throw them away.

Instead. I file them.

This evening as I was cleaning out my files, I noticed that the section I have dedicated to the cards was bulging. A few swollen, misshapen files have lost all purpose under the tremendous weight of my collection. I decided to go through and remove all the envelopes, in an attempt to cut down on the clutter.

Two hours later. I had re-read every card.

In these moments I relieved birthdays -- seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty and twenty-one -- I relieved past moments of glory, illnesses, gifts given, party's attended, milestones achieved.

I read through my Dad's long, thoughtful notes, like when I turned 18:
"Whew! College beginnings, 18th Birthday and all the wonder, promise and excitement of a new chapter in your life ... The next 4 years will change you in ways that you expect and don't expect (but are good)." He also includes his advice in three parts 1) Be safe, take care of yourself 2) Study hard 3) Have fun.

A Valentine from my stand-in parents while I finished high school, Val and George Padgett:
"Olivia, Happy Valentine's Day! It's so nice to have you still close by. Love, Val & George."

My Mother's short and sweet notes which are always on the world's funniest cards, like when I was getting ready to go to college:
"Learn a lot about life, love and what you study! Have fun! I love you! Mom"

A note from a favorite professor after I was chosen as Editor-in-Chief of the paper:
"This is a lifelong commitment, not just a 1-year gig ... establish a high expectation of quality from the start; don't put up with slackers or gripers -- dump them ... Believe in the struggle! Janna"

Or from a roommate, who was just a few months younger than me when I turned 21:
"I hope your 21st is the best year ever! Now you can buy me alcohol too. :) Love you! Stef"

From my little brother who didn't bother to write anything in the card, not even sign it:
Card reads: It's your birthday! Maybe this will finally be the year that mom and dad start loving you as much as me. Enjoy your day. (Thanks, Zach.)

From Fritz, my Mother's boyfriend, who has my favorite all caps handwriting:
Card reads: You're 21! One day you'll look back on this birthday and not remember a damn thing! Handwritten: ... AND THAT DAY WILL BE SEPT. 4! CONGRATULATIONS YOU FINALLY MADE IT! Fritz & Aimee"

But, of all the cards there is one that continually sticks out as my favorite card of all time. It was given to me just days after I was born by my godfather, Jim. Though I haven't spoken with him in years, I always keep the words he wrote to me over 21 years ago close by:

This is a long one, but I just can't pull an exceprt from it and let you sample the letter. I feel it's something that has to be taken in full.

Card reads:
Dear God
be good to me
the sea is so wide
and my boat is
so small

Handwritten:
Dear Olivia,
This card has been with me since 1970, hanging in a frame on one wall and then another and then about and so on, until tonight, when I took it down to send to you.

This card means a lot to me, which makes it a worthy gift. Your mother and father have been in the same room with this card many times. Long before you were, or were even dreamed of, your mom and dad -- conscious or not (I'll leave it to them to explain "consciousnesses" to you) have blessed this card with their presence. And it is "your presence" that I celebrate by sending it.

Welcome to this planet - this lovely place, so full of all that is wonderful and wholesome and good. It is not exactly the world I would have chosen to welcome you to (and even more than me, I know that your mom and dad are committed to this world being better for you as you grow up). And this is the only world I have to welcome you to.

So WELKOMMEN -- be happy here, find the beauty and wonder and awe. Welcome, small one, to a planet large enough to dream and hope and love in. And a planet so in need of dreams and hopes and love, most of all, love.

You are a precious thing - just by being alive, you are precious. And I give thanks to a God you might some day meet face-to-face for you!

May the sea be what it will be -- wide, fierce and deep -- and may your boat, small as it is, bear you to wonderous lands and great adventures.

Benn and Josh and Mimi - who I love - wish you, with me, a pleasant voyage.

Shalom
Jim


Thanks for the lovely words, Jim. My voyage is going just grand.

naming the president.

One of my responsibilities as the Online Community Producer is to keep watch over the comments that people are posting at the bottom of PilotOnline stories. Now if you've ever wasted enough time to read the comments that pop up at the bottom of a YouTube video, then you know the caliber of comment that I often get to see. I'm not sure what it is about commenting that entices vulgar extremists, but my hunch is it has something to do with ego.

Anywho. Lately I've noticed that our right-wing constituents seem to be struggling to decide on which derogatory name they will use when referring to President Barack Obama (who, as far as they are concerned, is planning to take away their guns, kill their unborn babies, institute a Marxist philosophy on all Americans, and hold the middle-class hard-working tax-paying law-abiding gun-totting white man down). Here's a little sampling of what I've seen so far:

BO
Barack HUSSEIN Obama (can we not give it a rest yet?)
Obummer
Barack Obailout

There are countless others, but they all seem to be reworkings of the same four concepts: he smells, he shares a name with a mass-murdurer, they're bummed he's in office and he's partly responsible for the bailout.

I wonder if any of these will eventually stick and become as pervasive as "W" (pronounced DUB-yuh). Perhaps approval ratings have to dip below 40% before the country finds the need to choose a mean-spirited nickname. I guess well have to wait and see. In the meantime, I'll leave you with the nicknames of other presidents past.

Gerald Ford - Jerry, the accidental president (ouch)
Calvin Coolidge - Silent Cal
Andrew Johnson - Sir Veto
Dwight D. Eisenhower - Kansas Cyclone
James Buchanan - The Do-Nothing President
(for more)

returning post.

Please excuse my long hiatus from blogging. Between scrambling to finish my senior projects, applying for jobs, running a different blog as part of a class project and maintaining a little bit of sanity, I neglected my blog.

But to my defense, life has been happening REALLY fast.

It was like I went to bed one day in February and woke up in June in a completely different city, surrounded by different people and different things, and calling a different place home. A place that is currently lacking some crucial elements -- like a couch, a television, gas for the stove and a shower curtain.

So to catch you up to speed in the shortest time possible:

- I graduated! (yay!) Family was in town. Lots of chaos. Lots of eating. Too much to do that I barely had time to enjoy it.

- I got a job! I started today (yay!) as an Online Producer with PilotOnline.com/HamtponRoads.com which are the websites associated with The Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk, Va.

- I moved! To a cute little apartment that sits among the tree tops in the third story of this 1900s apartment building. There are skylights, a refrigerator, central air conditioning and a shower -- what more could a girl ask for?


All in all I am enjoying my life transition and really like getting to know my new community. I've been going for long runs to get to know the neighborhood -- something I rarely had time for in Elon because schoolwork, friends or Smitty's was always there to distract me. Though I consider myself a very social person, there is something completely relaxing and liberating about living somewhere where every person you cross is a stranger, and every new acquaintance holds the promise of becoming a great friend.

More to come later. Check back!

salute shorts.

Hello friends.

I just wanted to give you a heads up about a new blog that I have started for a class assignment in my Methods in Interactivity Class. In response to the limited spaces where artists at Elon can share their work, I have created a community arts blog dedicated to "short stories" that can be told through poems, narrative, photos, films, etc.

Please take some time and explore Salute These Shorts.

Many thanks.

sitting out.

I sat in the crowd of 20-somethings, who only a few years ago were teenagers with me, and watched Ben Folds hammer his piano with intensity. The seated concert was awkward and uncomfortable. My legs ached to stand, rush the stage and cheer, but the 20-somethings around me sat with their beers in their hands and their blackberry’s buzzing, craving attention, in their pockets. The music was amazing, as I have come to expect. But while sitting I wondered if my music taste has become antiquated enough that all my concerts will now be seated.

I remember back to my days at the Warped Tour, when I would dye my hair pink and wear my coolest ringer tee. Standing out in the sun for hours, my friends and I would watch bands play their 20 minute sets. We’d rush from stage to stage, jockeying for a position toward the front. As the hot North Carolina sun beat down on our golden skin, the dehydration sank deeper, touching our bones, until we conceded to pool our funds and spend $6 on a bottle of water.

Is it weird to rue the day that a painful, blistering, musical experience is permanently traded in for the luxuries and comforts of plush red velvet seating, $500,000 audio systems and expensive lighting?

curl genocide.

A dabble of serum (clear goo).
A golf ball size squeeze of moose (fluffy goo).
A upside down fluff.
And off we go.

It seems simple enough, but my quick hair regimen took nearly 19 years to perfect. Nineteen years of combing (read: screaming in pain), no-more tangles spray, pony-tails and monster banana clips. For a girl raised by straight-haired parents, sometimes I think it’s a miracle I figured it out at all. I’ve had every haircut known to man in search of the perfect shape (yes, there was a mullet-like frock in the early 90s.) And still to this day I’m learning new things about my ever-evolving mane.

For years I tortured myself with flat irons and straightening goo, trying to get my hair to look like my parents – like everybody else’s. I hated my frizz and my dirty blonde color. I hated how any bit of rain or humidity would squelch any chance at a good hair day. I hated how my hair had to be difficult. I just wanted normal straight hair that I could comb, blow dry and style without an hour of effort and a clenched jaw in frustration.

Eventually I came to terms with my hair. I found the right products and techniques at the bible of curly hair’s Web site: www.naturallycurly.com. I stopped trying to control my hair and just let it go. The less I touched it or thought about it, the better it looked. Now, every day my hair is a surprise. Sometimes it’s more curly, sometimes it’s more wavy. Sometimes it’s got a round shape, sometimes more square. I’ve given up on dissecting the science behind it altogether, and couldn’t be more happy for it.

Perhaps it is my sense of personal triumph and acceptance with my hair that makes me overly sensitive to any twinge of anti-curl undertones in American culture. I frowned when the Anne Hathaway got made over in “The Princess Diaries.” Her wild, wavy hair was tamed to a pin-straight look instead of developed into something rich and beautiful. Just the other day on Bravo!’s show, “The Millionaire Matchmaker,” a woman was told that she needed to permanently straighten her hair because, “men don’t like straight hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through.”
Ugh.

All I can think of is the poor teenage girls, sitting at home with their straightener’s and chemical goo, planning a method of attack on their beautiful, but undeveloped, curls and waves. Please, America. Be accepting of us all. Stop the curl genocide.

pleasing people.

What is the difference between a muffin and a cupcake?

Nothing, really.

A muffin is a cupcake that we eat for breakfast. Sure, we may skip the icing so that we can feel like we are, in fact, doing something good for ourselves. We might also fool ourselves by thinking that replacing oil with milk in the ingredients makes much difference. But the cold hard truth of the matter is – muffins are just cupcakes that make you feel less guilty after you eat one.

There are a lot of things that we do so that we can feel better about ourselves. I was thinking earlier about the purpose behind actions we take – like buying new clothes even though our closets can suffice or adding a new gadget to our repertoire of techy-goods (yes, new iPod shuffle, I’m talking about you). But really, at the end of the day what really makes us feel good are things that are often beyond our control – the love from another or acknowledgement at work.

Lately, I’ve been trying to kick an addiction.

No, I’m not hooked on meth or throwing away thousands on a poker game. Fear not wary parents.

My addiction is much simpler, a little less devastating, but still quite destructive. It was born out of too many years in academia. Too many ups, and too few downs. The coddling of teachers, parents and peers. The unparalleled satisfaction.

I am addicted to pleasing people.

Lately it seems as if everything I do is not for myself. I’m so eager for the enthusiasm and appreciation of others, that my own interests get put on the back burner. Whether it’s spending a bit too much time on a class project, or doing favors that I really shouldn’t take on. Sometimes I look up and realize how cute and juvenile my desire for seeing happiness in others is. I know that wanting to please others isn’t a bad thing, but when their happiness trumps my own there is certainly an issue. Or even worse, on the occasion when my happiness depends on theirs. It’s just bad news bears.

I’ve kicked this addiction before, during my semester abroad in London where the only person I was able to please was myself. I came back to the states like I had just come out of rehab, all refreshed with my new healthy habits. But slowly, I have fallen back into the cadence that is so much a part of me I know it must originate in my heart and pump effortlessly through my veins.

So here I am again. Waking up in the mornings thinking, “Olivia, what do YOU want to do today?”

“Hmmm... eat a muffin.”

imaginative infant.

A few Sunday’s a week, I work in the nursery at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Comforter. For someone who is usually more annoyed by children than amused, this has been a great exercise of my patience – and has really softened my life-long aggravation with children. I’ve enjoyed watching the kids grow and develop from week to week, like the baby who just a month ago would spend the entire morning in my arms but who is now sitting on his own and starting to interact with the older children. It truly makes me marvel at the rapid complexities of the human brain.

My time in the nursery has brought about several thought provoking encounters. This past Sunday I was sitting on the floor, playing with Anna, when an elderly woman walked into the room cradling a baby doll. The doll was an infant snuggled in a pink blanket. The woman held the doll close to her chest. A man accompanying her announced, winking and using an unusual voice, that they had an addition for the nursery – this child.

Kissing the doll, the woman handed the infant doll to the other caregiver saying, “Now, she doesn’t eat much.” We assured her that we would take good care of her child. She hesitated as she walked out of the door, like a real mother with reluctance to leave her newborn child.

We soon learned that this woman was going through doll therapy – a treatment often used with patients suffering from dementia or a form of Alzheimer's. Without a doll, the woman might worry about where her “children” are, and go outside to look for them. The anxiety some women experience is so great that doctors have found giving them a doll to take care of greatly improves their quality of life and calms them.

This got me to wondering what I might cling to if I were to suffer from dementia or Alzheimer’s. Clearly this woman cherished her days as a mother, when other lives depended on her – not the other way around. Would I cling to my days on the soccer field? Nights spend playing spades with friends? Or my travels through Europe?

I’m quite certain that above all I would cling to reporting. It is the one thing that at this point in my life I would hate to lose the ability to do. I can see myself now, carrying around a notebook and pen (with pencil backup, of course) interviewing people for stories that will never run anywhere, making up deadlines that I would never need to meet, fuming when a phantom rival paper beats mine to a story or takes ideas from stories I’ve written. I only hope that people will humor me enough to give way to my imagination and play along.

When the woman returned we brought her the infant, saying that she’d slept the entire time.

“Well she never does that at home,” she said.

“Perhaps you should bring her here more often,” I replied.

beverage gallery.

We laid her down tonight,
that beautiful girl,
who of course went out,
wearing velvet pearls.
We combed her hair,
fastened with a pin
of bobby's nature,
plain and thin.
As pipers played
walked through the crowd
we laid her down
on soggy ground
drenched with our tears
not sweat nor rain
time spent in crossing
now oft and lain

Tonight she licked her lips
and sighed
for she saw it coming
from far and wide
Gather, gather
for her now
the time has come
to lay her down
in fields of memory
where love grows high
she rests tonight
a bid goodbye.


A cycle comes complete
and we take your glowing crown
to help us all remember
the night we laid you down.