Following "The Foot Fist Way"

Like any other subculture, martial artists have a lot to take in: insane training partners with anger issues and psychological problems, head cases with eating disorders and bizarre weight-cutting strategies (plus a personality disorder or two—YAY!), power-mad instructors strutting around and hitting on the attractive students, plus high-pressure sales pitches that offer lengthier, more expensive gym contracts modeled after unethical pyramid schemes, all thrown together into this toxic cocktail. Let's mix it up!

Since it's fighting, it's a dog-eat-dog world: envious partners who want to hurt you (badly) to take you out of the game, shameless ass-kissing for belt promotions, bitchy gossip, nasty rumors, locker room hookups and budding romances, mat funk, dojo stank, suffocating heat, injuries, pain, humiliation, occasional bouts of pride and ecstasy followed by crushing defeats, and did I mention envy? Thick as thieves, indeed.

With a little bit of luck and some real experience, you might actually find a place with the right "budo": a school with heart and spirit that instills a sense of honor and respect among its students, not through words but through its' actions, too. You'll know the real deal when you find it because you'll feel it. Until then, take comfort knowing we waded through the same shark-infested waters together because everyone learns from the pain. Welcome to our world. "Keeeeeyaaahhhh!"

Workin' it at 40+

Early morning at The Y, and it's empty. Perfect!

It's not easy trying to be an middle-aged athlete, but such is the case with me. After knee surgery with complications from DVT (Deep vein thrombosis: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DVT), I had months and months of physical therapy to regain leg extension. Muscles atrophy extremely quickly, and after some months, I could see a noticeable difference between the size of my calves.  My life changed quickly overnight, as the result of an accident walking my dog, which I've written about before. But here I was, and I was glad to be alive. I was at the point of deciding my next endeavor. What to do? Fencing? Hm. I hate gyms, but I need to continue the momentum. 

Cool down time.

I had set a routine for PT: early mornings before work, I went to PT sessions, supervised by a physical therapist, then I would clean up in the locker room, and get dressed for a full 8-10 day at the office, packing my work clothes in a gym bag. One morning my Physical Therapist asked me, "Hey, nice of you to show up ready to work!", because I was yawning and drinking coffee during warm ups. "Oh", I laughed, "that's because I need a boost to get me out the door to go to work." He stopped, paused for a second, and took a good, long look at me. "You...you...go to work." he said slowly, "After doing this." "Yeah!", I laughed, and then I glanced around the room. 

Time to hit the bag!

Many of the people there were disabled from obesity, riding in motorized carts, doing arm exercises and other limited, stationary routines. Oh. I was the healthiest and most active person there. And I wanted to keep it that way. So, when someone from work asked me to go to a martial arts school with them as part of a group (probably to get a discount) I quickly agreed. After all, I had studied Taoist Tai Chi years ago and loved it. Plus, it has deep, strong roots in my family. Two of my brothers and my oldest nephew are also martial artists. Cool! 

View from the elliptical.

But...could I do it given the damage in my knee? I was just getting back into shape, and I did have two pins in my knee. Plus, I was 37 at the time. What would happen? I started out very gently, easing myself into classes, until they became routine. And I enjoyed them, too. This was really the first thing I had ever done solely for myself, to benefit just me and no one else, or so I thought. It felt very selfish, but then I learned that the healthier I became, the better it would be for those around me. It's a lesson I struggle with daily.

Starting over, this time BJJ.

Then, I stepped my routine up another notch, daring to enroll at the same world-renowned BJJ school as my Irish Twin. It was a huge honor for me to be at the same school as him, because he is much more advanced than I am. As he stood over me in the dojo office, where I signed my contract, I felt more doubts. Can I really do this? I looked up at him, and he placed his hand on my shoulder. I made my decision. Well, I can do anything for a year. Right? Wrong! I made it 11 months, with a competition under my belt, realizing that over the course of those months, I had sustained two separate injuries, during different training sessions. My leg started giving way after training for a few hours, and I knew that something was wrong, but I told myself if I just made it to that first tournament, I would get the MRI. And so I did. 

No-gi BJJ tournament.

The news was serious, but I already knew it was: meniscus tear, torn ACL, ligament, bone and tendon bruising in my weaker leg. Strange thing is, my injuries really don't hurt all that much, except during bad weather, which is like arthritis, I'm told. When I did the ACL tear, my training partners were so scared, because they told me they heard a "POP!", that dreaded sound we all fear. The room became very quiet, because they realized it before I did. "Oh?", I questioned the purple belt who was supervising me and my partner, "You heard a pop?" They asked me what I wanted to do, so I took a moment, shook my leg out laughing, and said "Ahh, I'll play it through. I wanna finish the class." 

Early a.m. Just me and the bag.

It really didn't hurt that much, certainly not as serious as it looks on paper. I iced it for awhile, then tried classes, but the instability told me something was weird, and so it was. I knew from my accident (and an epic journey home: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2011/10/ted-12901-102011.html) that I had a high tolerance for pain, but this was something I couldn't ignore. Now what? Back to PT! And so I embarked on another journey, this time by myself, training at The Y, strengthening my muscles. 

Do what you do.

At first, I wore a DonJoy brace made for ACL injuries, setting the elliptical machine to its lowest resistance settings. Gradually, I gained more muscle, which helps secure the damaged area. I started bag training again, then swimming, and finally some classes, which told me a lot about how far I've come on this path. Now I'm 42, and I'll always have a bad knee, but I won't give up, and neither should you.  Keep fighting!

Around the Way

 

Winter Blooms on 3rd Street, © Marie Doucette 2011.

Burton Branch, Park Slope, Brooklyn, © Marie Doucette 2012.

Best Musicals

As a genre, musicals are not high on my list of favorites. I start getting into the narrative, and then BOOM! someone abruptly breaks into song, with hand gestures and dance moves. Annoying and quite frankly, kinda terrifying. Homies, ya feel me on this one? Like, if someone did that on the train, you'd switch cars, right? Word. But, if it's in the interest of parody, (see also: Team America, World Police) then I am so down. http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/search/label/Team%20America%20World%20Police

Before the genius of puppet sex, (And you know you wanted to see how that worked. Remember when Barbie dolls came of age in your household? Good times. My Ken, while stylish, was definitely hetero.) Matt Stone and Trey Parker composed the brilliant movie South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut. Yes, I own the soundtrack and so should you, but if not, then take a listen to a song or two. Please note: not suitable for the kiddies. Sorry, folks.

I defy you to get "I'm Super!" out of your head today. "Skittles!" Next up, a nod to the French Resistance. When in doubt, shout it out: Blame Canada!

Sure, war is a bummer and all, but what would World Champion and Olympic figure skater Brian Boitano do? I've wondered about that, as have the boys from South Park, Colorado.

Okay, okay Brian Boitano has the answers to thwart world domination, but what if the moms in town go mad with power and bloodlust? Sing, dammit, sing! Sing your little hearts out.

Jazz hands...yeah. Rough times at the playground, where many a battle has taken place. Catchy, isn't it? It's a tough world out there, but at least we can still laugh about it. Stay safe this weekend.

"I am..."

I've been a Simpsons fan for many years, back when they were a roughly drawn comedy sketch featured on The Tracey Ullman Show. After The Simpsons premiered, I was watching an episode at home, on break from college. My mom came into the room, looked at the t.v. and said, "Oh I hate this show! That 'Bart' is such a brat! He deserves a smack right across the mouth. And the parents are awful. They act terrible. They say such horrible things!" Well, that's the whole point.

It was a truer representation of life than the sitcoms and t.v. shows of the day, which were blatant fakes. Nothing about pop culture reflected our lives. Finally, a depiction of a less-than-perfect family muddling their way through. This seemed more like me and my friends' lives at that point, and it was a cartoon. Perfect! Every artist I know is a huge fan. In between the crude behavior and silly jokes, came some of the most poignant t.v. moments from my early adulthood.

The question of identity can be challenging for anyone, but for children, it is a developmental necessity, enabling them to survive the slings and arrows of adolescence and beyond. I was fortunate to be born with an innately strong nature, though it did create a deep sense of isolation from the children and people around me. It's a recurring theme of Tim Burton's work, too: you are not like the others, and for a child that is extremely disconcerting. 

We are taught to behave, conform, and accept what it being told to us by our elders, even against our better judgement or instincts. For Lisa Simpson, this is keenly felt, because she is brilliant, gifted, talented, diligent and hard-working, while her family is not. Her loneliness is sharp, which she can clearly express, though it falls on deaf ears. So when a substitute teacher with a flair for teaching appears before her, she is entranced. He becomes a symbol for the kindred spirit absent from her life thus far.

When he is transferred to another school, Lisa is devastated. Her oasis of learning and understanding is being ripped away from her, and the acute isolation will close in upon her again. What an awful feeling! And yet, in that recognition lies her strength. She will endure, because she can. Her most excellent teacher gives her a final lesson, reminding Lisa that when there is no one, she still has herself, and that is formidable indeed.

The House of Doucette

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doucet

Every day I'm reminded about the rarity of my heritage, because I carry my name with me everywhere I go. And every single day of my life, it's mispronounced or misspelled, either from ignorance or spite. Some of it's prejudice against the French left over from WWII, or news items that depict France as a spoiled Euro child who hates the evil American McDonald's, valid points both. I write this in the hopes that it will bear repeating among my readers, so that I won't have to deliver such a speech again: I AM NOT FRENCH. Let me tell you who I am.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acadians

I am descended from The Huguenots http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugenots who were expelled from France for political reasons, 

to settle in Nova Scotia as Acadians, then after The Expulsion, were dispersed through force. Some became the Cajuns of New Orleans ("Cajun" is a corruption of the term "Acadian"), some went south to the Colonies (hello, me), and some disappeared into the woods, never to be heard from again, becoming a blend of European and Native American called The Métis. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Métis_people

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acadians

This is the history of a people so brutalized, oppressed, and terrorized, that for many of us, our name is all we have left, after every trace of our culture and history was burned or destroyed or taken from us. I'm fortunate that my ancestor, Pierre Doucet, was an indentured servant to a wealthy sea captain, granting him the freedom to determine his fate in a somewhat better measure. He died, leaving behind a diary, which my family is blessed to have. http://homepage.ntlworld.com/pitretrail/myline/paternal/pdoucet.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nova_Scotia

So the next time you are tempted to try an "exotic" name, ostensibly to show your worldly sophistication, I would ask that if you have any lingering doubts as to the correct pronunciation, ask first. Because you just might be addressing a fighter, who takes questions later.

http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2011/11/inconvenient-truths.html

Snow Dogs

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iditarod_Trail_Sled_Dog_Race

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samoyed_(dog)

In case you missed it the first few hundred times, I am a crazy pet person. My clear preferences veer directly towards cute, fluffy critters, specifically dogs, in particular working dogs, with Snow Dogs as favorites. Sitting regally at the top of the furry food chain, the Malamute reigns supreme. I also carry a sentimental fondness for Samoyeds, because my first puppy was a pretty little princess named "Snowflake". A sweeter pet for a little girl would be hard to imagine, and a Sammy pup can melt the most frozen heart.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siberian_Husky

Today is the first snowy day of the winter season for me, and I always think about my dogs on mornings like these. For them, it was like the best of every major human holiday combined into one event: the wild anticipation of Christmas morning, the bombastic explosiveness of Fourth of July fireworks, and the exciting thrill of an Easter egg hunt; the strongest delights we know, rolled into an unbeatable experience. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alaskan_Malamute

I love watching a snow dogs' joy. They make graceful leaps through the snow, burying their muzzles into the drifts, deeply taking in the different senses of snow, then pulling out their snow-covered noses in exhilaration. This is "Go Time", so ingrained into their nature, it will never be exhausted. I understand their happiness on days like this, the first snow of the year. This is their time to shine. I so greatly admire their tenacity, intelligence, independence, maturity, skill, and the incredible emotional connection they build with their human families. One does not "own" a snow dog, per se. You enter into a pact, a common agreement to share time together for awhile, to help each other out. It's majestic—an actual, real bond based on mutual respect.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sled_dog

They empathize, endlessly adapting. They possess the brain functions to understand about 200-300 spoken words. In their environment, a slavish devotion to a human just doesn't cut it, because a sled dog must make snap decisions, both independently and within the pack, to keep everything running smoothly. In conjunction with our species, it remains a feat unsurpassed in the animal kingdom.
I love their strength as much as I value their spectacular beauty; resilience coupled with an innate good nature. A snow dog will thrive in the harshest conditions to come out the clear winner, and have the best time doing it. That's excellence.

Well I stand up next to a mountain
And I chop it down with the edge of my hand...yeah
Well I stand up next to a mountain
I chop it down with the edge of my hand
Well I pick up all the pieces and make an island
might even raise a little sand...yeah
'Cause I'm a Voodoo Child
Lord knows I'm a Voodoo Child baby

Lemme say one more last thing

I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time,
I'll give it back right back to ya, one of these days, hahaha
I said I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time
I'll give it right back one of these days...yeah
And if I don't meet you no more in this world
Then I'll meet you on the next one
But don't be late,
Don't be late!
'Cause I'm a Voodoo Child, Voodoo Child
Lord knows I'm a Voodoo Child 

Hey, hey, hey!

Voodoo child, baby

I wouldn't take no more without askin'

Especially another one.

Hey!

 Jimi Hendrix, Voodoo Child

"He's a very loving cat."

I owe my memory of the Internets' infancy due to hijinks. A co-workers' boyfriend hung around the studio all day long, while his then-girlfriend worked. He did the odd Art Department chore now and again, but he wasn't officially a designer.
I guess he was a "Guy Friday"*, if that even exists anymore.
Oh well. We shrugged it off as yet another eccentricity, typical of the weird atmosphere that surrounded us. He called out to us one evening, long after regular office hours, so we would gather around a computer screen in the now-absent creative directors' office.

"Guys, guys, check this out!" He signalled us over, then pointed at the screen he sat in front of. "This is the Internet. And it's free! You can chat with people online. I got a couple of girls on here right now that I'm talking to, at the same time." One of my friends said: "How do you know it's a girl on the other end? It could be some dude who's messin' with you." Excellent observation. And it looked like: 

Huh. Neat. Not exactly the hip future we were hoping for: geeks fumbling awkwardly after women. How novel. It was the computer equivalent of one hand clapping. Needless, we were not dazzled. And so, I waited. It wasn't too much longer that web browsers and desktop publishing interfaces were introduced, warming up the digital environment to resemble actual human eyesight and thinking. Mac users were there from the start because we had to, eking out a living.

By the 90s, I had a home set-up, after tears and yelling, a bit of hair pulling and gnashed teeth, plus hours of 1-800 phone calls to tech support lines. Some refused assistance because I wasn't on a paid warranty program, and I wouldn't cough up a credit card number to whoever was on the other end of the line (and it was a land line). Hacking and piracy, cyber-crime, went hand-in-glove with advances back then, just like any other frontier town. The territory was The Wild West, unregulated and rarely monitored. With great freedom came some risk, but isn't that how the best situations always begin?

It was a nail-biting experience, setting up a home system, adding the Internet with dial-up capabilities. Each peripheral, like the printer, external disk reader (be it floppy, SyQuest cartridge, or Zip), and scanner, had different software, drivers, ports, wires, connections, and cables. One wrong move in the daisy chain, and the whole works didn't function properly, which amounted to hours of work for naught. We were truly on our own in this new world. So, we learned and adapted, to the point where modern companies still sometimes confuse our job roles with those of computer programmers or IT. 

see also: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2011/11/tech-angst.html

But set it up I did, as I sat there for hours watching time bars move at an excruciatingly slow rate of speed across the screen. I studied the Internet as a medium. Search engine. Hm. I typed in "midget porn". Links!! Yeah! Ohhhh. Sadly, the top one was the site of a little persons' Australian rugby team, but I was thrilled nonetheless. (Rubs hands together over keyboard). World Wide Web, indeed. Here. We. Go. Back at the office, we created badly Photoshopped gag images hastily, as fast as we could master new software, and played hours of networked computer games among our intrepid band of artists and designers.

http://www.smh.com.au/news/sport/big-hoop-dreams-for-small-heroes-at-world-dwarf-games/2009/07/23/1247942008504.html

By the time me and my then-fiancé had a couple over for dinner at the apartment, I had the works at home up and running. Après-dinner, I showed the group what my new-found knowledge had provided us with, and that was....stupid videos! We chatted with drinks in hand, while I periodically checked the screen for status. Finally, after about 25 minutes or so, it was ready to run. And this is what I showed them, successfully producing the sought-after reaction: wildly gut-busting fits of laughter. Pinky now lives forever in cyberspace, perhaps as the first-ever web video that went instantly viral. Long may he reign.

Are you ready for Friday?

*http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/guy+friday

Kitchen Mission Accomplished

Dear Readers, 

This morning, I woke up late
(for me) and like many of you,
I found myself without instant coffee. I'd offered my coffeemaker machine to the street gods years ago. In Brooklyn, that means you leave something on the sidewalk in front of your dwelling, and it magically disappears. It was a counter hog in my mostly counter-less kitchen anyway, plus I'm not typically a big caffeine drinker, for health reasons.

And yet, today herbal tea was clearly not going to cut it.
On the tippy top shelf, I remembered I might have some grounds for brewing purposes.
I stood on a chair and fished out a container from among the upper recesses. By now, you know how we roll in this town: what we lack in square footage, we gain in ceiling height, which makes the highest cabinets in my kitchen a sort of uncharted and forgotten territory that I rarely visit.

The stove clock is still set on Spring time. Doh! Actual time of experiment: 7:48 a.m

I am happy to report, I "MacGyvered" a cup of coffee from a container that had a "best used by" date of 2008, utilizing two paper towels as a filter, and a plastic to-go container as a stand-in for the coffee pot. Obviously, unbleached and organic paper towels would be the best choice for this experiment. It takes a bit of patience to slowly pour hot water onto the grounds in intervals, allowing sufficient time for the water to drip through without incident, but in the end, it was totally worth it. I secured a freshly brewed cup of coffee. Just don't tell my doctor it wasn't decaf. 

"Necessity is the mother of invention."

http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/necessity-is-the-mother-of-invention.html

This is how Penguins roll

By now you should know the excellence that is The Penguins of Madagascar. Not only is it a great show for kids, but like the best work made for children, adults can enjoy it on many levels, too. How awesome is it that they live in Central Park Zoo? 

http://johnkennethmuir.wordpress.com/category/1980s/page/2/

So, let's dive right in to my favorite episode "Crown Fools" (Season 1, Episode 11) which makes references to: Ninjas, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, martial arts, cage fighting, The Matrix, the madcap histrionics of William Shatner as Captain Kirk from Star Trek, and the nostalgic audio joy of the The Bionic Man sound effect during the Skipper's fight-winning corkscrew move. If you want to see the cage match, skip to 6:23, then 7:55. Happy Fun Day!

Penguins of Madagascar - Season 1 Episode 11 Crown Fools
    
  Vezi  mai multe  video    din   haioase

http://www.centralparkzoo.com/

A New York State of Mind

As a young child, I had no idea people lived in other places besides "The City". After all, it dominated every facet of my world. Our parades were shown on every major t.v. network, like The Macy's Parade on Thanksgiving, and The St. Patrick's Day Parade in March. Even though these days are national holidays, I always saw my city on t.v. Sesame Street looked like any block in Brooklyn (I like to think it greatly resembles Park Slope :),  and The Electric Company back in the 70s had a multi-ethnic cast (remember the Asian-American girl with the Crystal Gayle long hair?!). And it wasn't just t.v. 

The biggest, most famous movies in the world were set in New York, a list that's far too long to write, like King Kong and Taxi Driver, with New York actors like Robert DeNiro. Beloved and adored cartoon characters, like Bugs Bunny, were voiced by Mel Blanc in a distinctly urban voice, reminiscent to me of my grandfather, an Irish-American Con-Ed worker from Brooklyn, who worked in the lower East Side, an area where Yiddish was widely spoken. I can bust out a bunch of words I learned from him, like "meshugga", "shiksa", and a decent "Oy Vey!" that's full of feeling, to the surprise of some. Broadway plays, operas, Lincoln Center for The Nutcracker and ballet, The Rockettes, The Harlem Globetrotters, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Guggenheim, commonplace to kids from the area.

http://jennylens.com/dee-dee-ramone-changed-my-life/

That was just entertainment. Magazines and catalogs were adorned with models who worked and lived in New York, shot in studios in Chelsea or with city backdrops at locations around town. My cousin was a model and sometime girlfriend of DeeDee Ramone, voted "Best Legs" 1976 (or '77? Suzy, forgive me!), by an underground 'zine that catered to the punk scene. Like every New York girl, I had a fling with modeling, though I was too short for haute couture. And thankfully so, because I was already deeply immersed in my college education. Still, I took a runway walk class, got ripped off by a small-time NJ photographer for some photos, was rejected by Elites' receptionist right out of the elevator and told to go to the Petites division around the corner (bailed on that), booked a shoe show at The Javits Center with a less prestigious agency, then blew it off, as teenagers on summer break are wont to do. I had to make money, so I worked and hung out with friends. A kid from high school was already appearing in commercials as an actor, mostly famously for a board game ad, and dancing friends were auditioning for companies in the city or programs.

My parents met at a jazz club in The Village (that's Greenwich Village, in downtown Manhattan), and went to poetry readings during their courtship. Your parents didn't do that? Huh. I got a dose of reality in the 5th grade, when I wrote an essay about it for Miss O'Brien, a very young and earnest substitute teacher. I really liked her, but she took a red pen to my story, crossed out the word "bar" and replaced it with "restaurant", or something like that. The change riled me enough to give me the courage to go up to her desk after class and inquire about her alterations, a rarity for such a shy girl like me. She explained that it wasn't polite to write something like that, and she was making my story better. She was sure my parents wouldn't like it. I think I even went home and showed to them, and they laughed. She may have been a local from the area we moved to, a suburb which was still quite isolated and rural back then, surrounded by farmland, and accessible to New York City only by a local highway that still has no lights on it, courtesy of a national parkland designation. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palisades_Interstate_Parkway

Songs were written about our fair city, broadcast on every radio station, famous anthems like "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra. Everyone knew the Yankees and their iconic players, regardless of locale. My grandmother watched them at the stadium as a girl, and she's 96. Compared to most Americans, we have a long history. People come from around the world to see our attractions, like the tree at Rock Center, Radio City, Times Square, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State, and the late, great Trade Towers. These weren't local attractions. I knew that because they were in such crowded areas, I had to hold an adults hand so I wouldn't get separated. The people on the streets spoke all sorts languages, people of every size, shape, and color that represent humanity. My first real boyfriend in high school was originally from Puerto Rico, though fully Americanized, and I had friends from Ghana, England, and the south of France. To this day, I have trouble in homogeneous and less diverse zones of our country. Where are the rest of the people?

http://www.ebaumsworld.com/pictures/view/597895/

The bubble from The Land of Oz finally burst for good in college, amongst a surfeit of Long Islanders. The girls' floor in our dorm was filled with sorority sisters who simply traded their town from downstate to upstate New York, sporting the same baggy Champion sweatshirts and topknot ponytails held in place by velvet scrunchies. I was horrified by their singularity and conformity, a herd mentality that signalled an utter lack of courage and individuality. If this was what was out there, I'll pass. I had the good fortune to meet a group of kids from the North Shore who skateboarded, surfed, and spent summers clam digging around bonfires on the beach. Cool. That I could roll with. I'm a beach kid who spent summers swimming the ocean of Long Beach Island. The first time I went to their dorm room, some great artist had pencilled an amazing drawing of The Ramones on the floor, at the entrance to their suite. Home sweet home.

From 1989, in front of Galway Cathedral.

I went on to travel a great deal. I got struck young and early by a restless wanderlust. Before the age of 19, I had already been to Amsterdam and Ireland, the first among my crowd to travel overseas, and in pre-Euro days. I would return to Ireland, travel through Italy, have a brief work stint in Germany, with side trips to Paris and Amsterdam, again. I would take incessant road trips around America, desperate to see what else was out there. I've found similarly sexy vibes in cities like New Orleans and Montrèal, but when you're from a place like New York, you come from a fabled land that's up there with London, Paris, Tokyo, and Hong Kong. Along with our many visitors, people come to our town laden with a head full of prejudices and media programming. Rest assured, most of us are normal, we just have a vision that's as grand and impressive as our skyline. My excessive nervous energy has been replaced by a contentment to be settled in a small town, in one of the largest cities 

in the world. Happy trails to you!

http://brooklyn.com/

Bright lights in a big city

With an artist, it never ends. We don't put on our jackets, shut the lights to a room, and shed the remains of the day like clothing. Ideas, images, text, narrative, stories, sights, sounds, smells—they fill our heads as we move through the world and stay with us. We are always looking, always aware, always seeking. And I love that, but it can be hard to explain. 

 

We compartmentalize so much during the day—constantly screening out the distractions that surround us to get our work done. Leaving a constricting environment is like letting my hair down, shaking it out, putting my feet up, and finally sighing in the comfort of my home, to release the pent-up breath I'd been holding in all day. Now I can just be me. We see design in everything, natural or handmade, so it follows suit that this would mark our homes, too. 

As in nature and life, change is constant. The seasons change, the lighting changes, the earth moves, and so do we. Nothing remains constant, static, stuck in place, dead. It evolves and adapts as we do. Our jobs blur the lines between disciplines into a harmonious whole. We do clerical, administrative, marketing, accounting, even change coffee filters, any facet of business you can think of, in addition to creating product on the clock. As"artist" is a general term and "designer" is specific, both accomodate as constraints dictate, on demand. 

And so I change my home with the seasons, as inspiration drives me, or as I see fit. It's an energy, that creative spark, and when it moves you, you just go with it. Sometimes it pans out and sometimes it doesn't, but the great thing that comes with age is that we master our impulses, gaining timing and foresight with the knowledge we constantly absorb. Unlike other disciplines, like music, acting, or dance, there are no artistic prodigies, because it's manual dexterity applied with accrued learning is beyond the scope of youthful immaturity.

I surf a myriad of design sites every day, including decor and interior design. As I was taking down and putting away the Christmas decorations, I thought about how much I love the way the lights look in this season. Why put away something so cheerful looking? But, how to incorporate Christmas lights without harkening to a dorm room? I'd been into solar-powered light jars for sometime, though they seemed really expensive. And I know I've seen lights in jars and vases, so why not? It took me back to childhood, to that magical time between daylight and sunset, dusk in summertime, when the fireflies come out twinkling and the crickets start chirping, as we ran about the yard collecting them in jars. Who wouldn't want to be reminded of that? Especially when there's more dark than light during the Winter Solstice.

After packing away the Christmas decor, I realized I'd left some green beads strung around a large picture frame, to give it some holiday color. Oops. No way I was gonna unpack that large container for some beads. Hmm. Then I remembered my cousin in New Orleans, readying for Mardi Gras. Aha! At first I had the beads as curtain ties in my bedroom. I liked the way they sounded as I drew the fabric behind the holds, but it was unwieldy to do so. Where could they go, as a reminder? I scanned the apartment, looking for places. They now happily adorn a living room shade, which is ornate in the style of a French Quarter salon. Perfect. I love the association—it suits the Doucette in me well.

Please feel free to borrow and idea or two. Heck, go ahead and steal them, because I sure did. Apologies to the design sites with the gorgeous lighting ideas that stuck in my head. I'd reference you, if I could separate you out from among the jumble. Anyway they are filed away in my brain forever, so thanks for making such a big impact on me. Here's some favorites that I scan throughout the day:

http://thedesignerpad.com/

http://www.loveitalot.com/

http://www.notcot.org/

http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/

À bientot!