Let's All Be Men!

Happy New Year! I was going to post this poem by Rudyard Kipling on my Facebook page, but it's too long. Hence my accidental return to my Polly blog (is it only me, or did you totally think of pollywogs just now?)

Apparently it's been almost a year since I've posted anything. I've stayed true to my 2014 New Year's resolution to only write when I felt like it. I've realized that I'm a winter weather blogger. Once the sun's out, all bets are off. You'll most likely find me outside, thank you very much. With living in the Carolinas, this means I'll only be productive about two months out of the year.

Anyway - I love this poem by Kipling and though I slightly give away the ending by mentioning this, I totally forgive him his somewhat sexist viewpoint given the historical context of his time (even though it does rub me the wrong way every time a read it. I wonder if he had a daughter?). Plus, as a writer I understand that he needed a one syllable word to match the cadence he had established.  And last, but certainly not least, this gives me a reason to post a picture of Mr. Darcy. That is never a waste of time.

So, Ladies and Gentlemen! In 2015, let's all be men!

 Mr. Darcy says, "Be a Man!"

If

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 
But make allowance for their doubting too: 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, 
Or being hated don't give way to hating, 
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; 
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim, 
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 
And treat those two impostors just the same:. 
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken 
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings, 
And never breathe a word about your loss: 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 
To serve your turn long after they are gone, 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 
If all men count with you, but none too much: 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, 
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, 
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! 

The Day is Done

“The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.”

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Art, Taxes and Abandoning Ship

The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.

Pablo Picasso

Today has not been my favorite day. Or yesterday either, if I'm truly honest. The past 48 hours  has been a miserable endeavor of math and paperwork. That's because once a year the government forces me to take all the receipts that have been collecting dust in a basket and put them in an organized fashion for tax time. I realize it's only February, but my husband is the one who forces me to do this before April 15th. Because I'm a recovering Pollyanna, I feel that I must also document every single receipt into a spreadsheet  to make sure that the tax lady doesn't forget anything and accidentally give me less of a refund than I have due. The only redeeming thing about spreadsheets is that it does the math for you. That's worth something to me.

But wow, what a headache. And what a sobering reminder that my income as an artist compared with the energy expended doesn't seem to match up very well. This is the time of year that I wonder if I could be making a six figure salary if I worked this hard for a corporation. A steady paycheck of a decent amount sounds so lovely. Not having to find my own gigs or drum up business sounds wonderful too. Ah, the life. But whenever I'm about to abandon my little ship and apply for a 'real job', the thought of someone else telling me how to spend the hours in my day stops me in my tracks. I realize that in order to work for a corporation, I'd really want to be the boss of the corporation which only comes with the same headaches and responsibilities at a much higher level! (Notice how I assume that I actually could be the boss of a big corporation…I'm a Queen Bee.) I might as well keep being the boss of my little music company, play the piano, write songs and call it a day.

Can I work at being content? Or does it come when you don't even notice? I suppose that's another 'try hard not to be hard on yourself' type scenario. I think I'll prescribe a movie and a comfy blanket and I'll be content for tonight. Which is something.

Success is Failure Turned Inside Out

Well, it's been over a week since my last post. I'm so glad I'm giving myself freedom to only write when I feel like it... or when I only have a minute…or when I'm avoiding other pressing deadlines, but I find anything and everything else to do first because what I have to accomplish seems too monumentous a task. (and what was I thinking by jumping into the deep end of the pool anyway? I change my mind! Get me out of here or toss me a floatie and a drink in a coconut with a little umbrella in it!)

I won't wax poetic today. I'll let someone else do it for me. This poem is one my dad used to recite to my sisters and me when we were growing up. I still love it. I needed to hear it again this morning and I figured I'd share in case you did too.

Time to drink my coffee and be brave.

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,

When the road you're trudging seems all uphill

When the funds are low and the debts are high,

And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,

When care is pressing you down a bit --

Rest if you must, but don't quit.

Life is strange with its twists and turns,

As every one of us sometimes learns,

And many a fellow turns about

When he might have won had he stuck it out.

Don't give up though the pace seems slow --

You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than

It seems to a fair and faltering man,

Often the struggler has given up

When he might have captured the victor's cup,

And he learned too late when night came down,

How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out --

The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,

And you never can tell how close you are,

It may be near when it seems afar,

So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit, --

It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.

-- Author Unknown --

Queen Bees and the Color Purple

"All art is an act of arrogance."

- Phillip Yancey

"You can call me Queen Bee..."

- Lorde

I had a fabulous dream two nights ago! I dreamed that the Queen of England invited me to a party and she liked me so much she decided she wanted me to head up some new initiative, which I can't remember what it was exactly, but the important thing was that the job came with an apartment in London. Oh, my gosh. Awesome. In my dream I was like, "I got this. I am SO meant to be friends with the Queen."

Instead of finding myself in a gorgeous flat in London, I woke up to my suburban home on a grey, drab North Carolina winter day. Ah, reality. It struck me how arrogant I am that even in my dreams I'm thinking that the Queen would want to hang with me! Ha! But even awake, I still think if I met her face to face, I'd be just fine. (She might not like my clothes though. I just read that she's giving her daughter- in-law a wardrobe makeover. If she doesn't approve of Kate Middleton's look, what hope is there for the rest of us?)

A fellow, fabulous artist friend and I were having a conversation over the weekend about how, as driven, creative personalities, we're a blend of confidence and insecurities. I usually say I'm confident in my insecurities. I think in her words were "I'm a big, hot mess and Queen Bee all rolled into one."I like how she says it better. But it's true. There's something about being an artist that assumes that you will stop and take the time to read our words, view our art, listen attentively to our songs and watch our performances on stage or film. We have something to say! Something to express! Why wouldn't everyone want to stop and take notice? I get depressed when no one notices!

Then sometimes people do take notice. Then I find out that they may or may not like what they see. Then I change my mind. I don't feel strong or confident. I want to head for the hills. I want to work for a corporation, so that I can have a 9-5 job and have cool outfits, fun lunch dates and go on business trips to exotic locales (after all, isn't that corporate life?!) and not have people judge what I have to say or how I put a song together. (And what is so wrong with a Bb major seventh chord, anyway?! I happen to love those!)

Oh, my Pollyanna people pleaser problems. I wish they would go away. I wish I was brave like other artists who don't give a damn. (Look! I swore! Fun!) It reminds me of the color purple. Not the movie. I  mean the color. I'm a blend of red hot confidence and blue, melancholy insecurities. Purple. :-) Purple has been my favorite color all week and I just got a new, plum colored shirt that I think I will wear every day until it's time to change the color of my clothes.

Let's Change the Color of Our Clothes

“All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” 

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

"The Colorful Ballet Dress" - Stefan Kuhn

I've had my first official blog entry for just one day. I'd link you to it, but I don't know how to do that yet. I still haven't told many people about it either, but whatever. Baby steps. I've been fighting with myself about deleting it because this Pollyanna girl is a people pleaser. (So much for feeling free.) I don't necessarily want you to know what I'm thinking deep down because you might decide you don't like me after all. Plus (since this blog is all about honesty), sometimes I just feel like it's none of your business! But I give hints;  I share bits. I write stories and songs, which may or may not give evidence to what's going on underneath everything. It depends on the song. It depends on the day.

For the past four years I've been singing standard jazz and blues music. I also have used the old romantic standards sung by the likes of Ella Fitzgerald as a model for my own writing. It is  fabulously freeing and fun! (say that fast 10 times.) It's also a safe, easy way to hide behind clever or romantic lyrics that nobody says in real life. I love songwriting!

Years ago, I also used to write songs about things that really, truly mattered to me. I don't do that any more. Criticism can do that to a person. Now I'm finding, even though I still believe there is a place for lighthearted, romantic songs, that I've blocked my ability to go to that deeper, honest place in my heart and express it artistically.

So again, I go back to the purpose of this blog for me…to be the honest, no make-up, no fancy lighting, real me who's flawed and afraid. And to be cool with that!

A Facebook friend just recommended the poetry of Pablo Neruda today and after reading several poems, this one really struck me. I'll leave you with his words for the day:

“He who becomes the slave of habit,

who follows the same routes every day,

who never changes pace,

who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,

who does not speak and does not experience,

dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,

who prefers black on white,

dotting ones "it’s" rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,

that turn a yawn into a smile,

that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,

dies slowly.

He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,

who is unhappy at work,

who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,

to thus follow a dream,

those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,

die slowly.

He who does not travel, who does not read,

who does not listen to music,

who does not find grace in himself,

she who does not find grace in herself,

dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,

who does not allow himself to be helped,

who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,

dies slowly.

He or she who abandon a project before starting it, who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who don't reply when they are asked something they do know,

die slowly.

Let's try and avoid death in small doses,

reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.

Only a burning patience will lead

to the attainment of a splendid happiness.” 

- Pablo Neruda

p.s. I don't necessarily agree with the last line, but I'll tell you why another day. :-)

Why I'm a Polly

Dramatic, Actor/Singer Me

Once upon a time, about a year and a half ago, this good girl I know….okay, okay. it was me… I was relaying a tragic professional acting experience I had on a film set to an acting coach. He told me (among other things) that I expected myself to be perfect. He also told me I was competitive. Wow, he made me mad because good girls already know they're not supposed to be perfect or competitive; they understand that we all make mistakes and it's okay. (Of course, somehow, good girls don't really talk about their own mistakes…they just forgive other people for theirs while scrambling to do everything just right themselves.) Well, anyway, after this conversation I was not feeling okay about the fact that I wasn't okay with my mistakes, which meant that something was wrong with me and I needed to fix it, A.S.A.P.  I decided right then and there that I'd show him! I was not too hard on myself…I was gonna work hard at not being hard on myself...

Five seconds later the truth sank in…Crap!! (Good girls don't swear. They say "crap" instead.)  I had just confirmed what he said about me! That made me mad too, because good girls like to think they know themselves inside and out. How could HE see that in me after a short time when I've been living with myself since birth! If anyone was going to win a first place prize for understanding what makes Carrie Marshall tick it should be me… So annoying…

It slowly sank in how my thoughts had again confirmed his second point. Argh!! But good girls aren't competitive; they're kind and gracious and unassuming. They don't get mad if someone is trying to help them by pointing out character traits that drive (and sometimes hinder) their work. I was a good girl! I thought only people on sports teams were competitive. I didn't even try to coordinate  any muscles until I was 22. How could this be? And even worse…how did I not know this about myself?

Since this fateful conversation, I've been slowly awakening to what I have now unofficially dubbed my "Pollyanna Complex". Now don't get me wrong; I love many things about Pollyanna. She's upbeat. She's adventurous. She loves people. She faced adversity and came out the other side smiling and making other people happy. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, you need to go watch the Hayley Mills movie adaptation right now.)   I am proud to be that Polly. But over the years, Pollyanna has also  become synonymous with being a naive, goodie two- shoes. She's known as an innocent, perfect girl who's annoyingly happy all the time, nobody can relate to because she doesn't exist on a plane the rest of us call reality, and expects everyone else to play her 'Glad Game'.  I hope I wasn't that bad. But am I hard on myself? Yes. Do I expect myself to be perfect? Yes. Was I blind to certain areas of myself? Yes.  When I titled my blog Saving Pollyanna,  this is what I'm referring to.

So, yeah. I'm a recovering Pollyanna. I am finally realizing that I don't have to have it all together. Letting go of perfection is very freeing.  I want to be free! This blog is going to be all about that, whether I share in video, photos, songs or words! All you Polly's of the world…join me!

Regular Ol', "I really should brush my hair" Me 

WHO’S GONNA SAVE POLLYANNA

Carrie Marshall, 2013

There once was a little blonde

In a pink dress

A perfect hair bow

Rose-colored glasses to match

She was full of sunshine

No matter the circumstance

A heart full of love

And good intentions, that’s a fact

Seasons came and went

It happens

The little girl

Got caught in the trappings

Of what everybody wanted

What she thought she should be

Playing the Glad Game

For everyone to see

Who’s gonna save Pollyanna

Who’s gonna heal her heart

 The good girls know

There’s no where to go

When their world is falling apart

Who’s gonna save Pollyanna

Everyone thinks she’s fine 

She’s pretty

She’s wise

The perfect disguise

For sad little Pollyanna

Polly is polishing her bubble

A rainbow of color to cover the troubles

But reality has a way of leaving messy stains

Bubbles are known for bustin’ in torrential rains 

Who’s gonna save Pollyanna

Who’s gonna heal her heart

 The good girls know

There’s no where to go

When their world is falling apart

Who’s gonna save Pollyanna

She still believes she’s fine 

She’s pretty

She’s wise

The perfect disguise

For sad little Pollyanna

Maybe someday she’ll look inside

Find out it’s really all right

Not to have it all together

No matter what the weather

Just be honest with herself

And let the truth shine

Just shine, Pollyanna, shine

You’ll be just fine. Pollyanna

In the midst of your struggle

In the midst of your pain

Through all of your failures

Your fears and your shame

Just shine, shine

Let the truth shine, Pollyanna

And you’ll be just fine