Stella and her Journey Throught the Night

Stella was an imaginative and peculiar girl of over 13 but under 14. She liked to tell others that her full name was Stella Nightshade but that her family had adopted her and changed her name to their own. She had told this tale for so long and to so many people that she did not remember how the idea had started or even whether it was the truth or made up.

Stella was fascinated with the unknown realms of the human mind. Nothing gave her more pleasure than to read books: psychological reference books, dream analysis books, various journals of both famous and lesser psychiatric masters. She was excited to sink her teeth into alternate reality fiction, books about weather and natural disasters, histories of human societies from the past and their legend and lore. In general, she found her everyday world, the world of flesh and bone, of fact and statistic, quite mundane and a bit of a chore to tolerate and adhere to. Because of her unique personality traits, Stella had few friends. That was fine with her, however, because her mind was rich with other realms and myriad of beings and creatures. She really had little time to give to the development of the socially acceptable traditions and niceties that were expected of young folk in her day and age.

Mr. and Mrs. Walker, Stella's parents, were professional scholars. They were archeologists by trade, anthropological detectives by consequence, and solvers of mystery by passion. Because their work took them the world over, their daughter was left to her own devices the majority of the time. That is not to say they did not hold her in their closest regard. They simply knew, due to years of teaching, guidance and observation, that their daughter was of the brightest and cleverest minds and that she did best by being left to fare on her own. She knew what served her most advantageously in her circumstances. She conducted herself in ways that allowed her mind to cultivate and her imagination to flourish. The elder Walkers knew than great things were in store for their daughter as long as they allowed her to develop her talents in her own way and at her own pace.

When the Walker family planned their move to the area of Oxford University, just three years ago, and into a 3- bedroom flat within a beautiful old manor house than had, in its time, been one of the loveliest stone buildings to grace the nearby grounds of the prestigious learning facility, they did so intentionally, knowing that there would be long stretches of time when Stella would reside there on her own. The family did their research and decided on this particular flat because of the reputation of having close-knit neighbors. They visited the property before making their decision and spoke with the lady of the house, Mrs. March, a descendant of the original owner's family. Mrs. March assured the Walkers that Stella would be safe and well looked after, both within the walls of the manor and in the community in general, while her parents were away.

And so it was decided upon and plans were underway to move the family from the neighborhood near London's Natural History Museum, where the Walkers had resided for 5 years, to the more serene and pastoral setting near the grounds of Oxford University, where they were to take up curator duties within the Pitt Rivers Museum. The Pitt Rivers was the archeological and anthropological museum  which adjoins the Oxford University Natural History Museum. The distance from London was less than 100 km but the change in scenery and general environment would be refreshing for them all.

Stella could not have been more delighted. Having few friends to begin with, her transition was an easy one. She had dreams and drew pictures of rolling countryside, tree-covered hills, bubbling streams, and woodland creatures. These, of course, were fantastical thoughts. Oxford was a city! A much smaller city in comparison with London, but a city nonetheless. She wanted to have a rabbit for a pet. She wanted to ride her bicycle down tree-canopied lanes. She wanted to be left alone to concentrate on things that her mind thought up.
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When the Walkers arrived in Oxford, Stella's heart sank a little. It was a beautiful place with majestic architecture, true. But it was much more populated than she expected. There were blocks of new, shiny buildings plopped down adjacent to historic old buildings. From the passenger seat Mrs. Walker turned to Stella with a wide smile. The corners of her mouth quickly fell when she saw the look on her daughter's face. Stella did not look unhappy so much as she looked slightly stunned.

"Sweetheart, what's the matter? Isn't it lovely here?" She asked Stella.

"Mum, I thought we were going to live in a village. Like in a country house." Stella said. She was not complaining. She was merely confused.

Mrs. Walker said, "Stella, Oxford is a city. It's not nearly as large as London but it is a proper city. There are all sorts of things to do here to keep you happy. Libraries and museums, of course, but also movie theaters and shoppes and I hear there is an ice-skating rink at city center. You love to ice-skate! Doesn't it sound like an adventure?"

Stella looked at her mother and smiled a weak but sincere smile. She glanced out the opposite window from where she sat and saw the spires of Oxford University rising into the sky. Her heart skipped a little beat. For a moment, she saw herself happy here in her new life.

"Yes, Mummy, it does. Truly. I should have done more research before I set my expectations. I promise I will be happy here," she said. She meant it.

"And don't worry, Stella. The house is beyond city limits. I just thought we'd take a drive through before settling in." Mr. Walker was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement. "It's a proper old country manor. I promise you will find it fascinating!"

Stella's mind was put to ease. She began to relax and enjoy the sights of this new city of hers. This Oxford. The new mixed in with the old. Present and past. She smiled to herself and sat back in her seat. Yes, this new adventure would suit her just fine.
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Sometimes my drawings are unfinished - Green Line 9-2-17

Sometimes my drawings are unfinished
I think I prefer it that way
Not only does it suit my procrastination
it allows for the imagination to complete the page
it gives the opportunity to expand the image
turn it into something more, something completely different even
I like to think it breathes life into my lines on paper

Sometimes my stories are unfinished
I think I prefer it that way
Mostly because I feel they are in constant creation
More chapters, more characters
More conflict and resolution
I don't pride myself in this inability to complete
anything more than a short story
I've written many of those and I like them
but they are like poems - beginning and end
Less difficult to sense completion

Sometimes my poems are unfinished
I think I do not prefer it that way
a poem unfinished to me
is an open-ended thought, an incomplete dream
I feel the need to use the exact words in the perfect order
This is something I've always been adamant about
Everything else in life can remain in progress
A poem needs to have a beginning and an end
Like a perfect moment or a beautiful day

I was overcome with panic - Green Line 9-2-17

It came upon me like a tsunami
this feeling I can't quite explain
like the world is ending
like my brain is melting
like everything and nothing is happening all at once
and I can't control a thing

The light dimmed and my eyesight narrowed
there were fireflies at the edge of my peripheral darkness
I had to reach out to take hold of something
My breathing was rapid and shallow
I became dizzy

I began to reason myself out of this
This feeling of being overcome by panic
I told myself this is not real
This is just my reaction to something in my head
Something that I can control once i identify it
Thoughts are not facts, remember that

Something i once learned in group therapy
about emotions being leaves on a stream
notice and identify and then let them float along
and out of sight

Another analogy that was really helpful
I am the sky, not the clouds
the clouds are just those emotions and thoughts
they are not real, they do not define me
Remain the sky, the canopy above it all

Slowly but moment to moment
I am starting to feel more grounded
a little more in control
I am not convinced everyone is watching me
judging me with critical eyes
I am not believing the thoughts that i am
not worthy to exist among you all

I am healing
little by little, day by day
Becoming the person I know myself to be
And as I begin to reveal my true self
I will amaze you

Stage Manager looked at me - Green Line 9-2-17

The stage manager looked at me. She looked at the director and then back to me again.
"I appreciate your interesting take on this play. However, I don't think this is the direction we were looking for."
I felt momentarily deflated. But it lasted only a moment. I emboldened myself.
"You know, there isn't only one way to interpret the material," I suggested. "I remember reading this treatment earlier and got a very clear vision of something fresh and different. If you aren't opposed to  hearing what my ideas are, I would really like the opportunity to share them with you."
I realized I'd bowed my head a little while I spoke. As if I were asking sheepishly. I wasn't asking sheepishly. I truly wanted to breathe some life into a play that I felt was being developed in a very normal and safe way. I always believed in pushing the envelope, inviting others to expand their expectations, see the world in a more unusual way.
"Give us a moment, please." The director and stage manager, sitting about a third of the way into the theater seats, slightly in the dark, bent their heads close and began to whisper in earnest, using hand gestures and becoming quite animated. This went on for an unbelievably long 3 or 4 minutes.
"Do you have time for a coffee or tea? We actually would like to hear what you have to say. You seem to be sincere in your enthusiasm."
They were right. I was very sincere and I was very enthusiastic.
"I would really like that," I said. "Do you mean right now or should we set up a time and place to meet?"
"We have time right now," the director said. "You were our last audition for the morning. The coffee isn't great here but we have plenty of time."
I felt like I was going to bust. I realized how much I loved the words and message of the play and how much I felt was going to be lost in this slightly tired rendition. I smiled and walked to the edge of the stage, descended the stairs and started up the aisle toward them.