power heels volume 2

my pointy patent heels are strewn on the plasticky mat thing and i FREAK out about the last time i came here to write about this particular subject because it did not go well.
i just ate an apple the size of my face.
which was a poor decision because i forgot that apples make me burp and then what the heck what if i burp while i'm singing se tu m'ami or something? or while i'm introducing myself? hi, i'm brooke, and you rejected me last time, so this time i will belch for you.
pleasant.

and i keep wondering if my tights are restricting the proper flow of air to my lower costals. and i hate not knowing how to spell costals. well whatever.

but not nervous, just anxious.

you know when you have lots of pressure on you, like this five minutes will determine your whole destiny? yeah. well. i don't know if you've ever experienced that before, but how could you NOT be wondering about every little detail and what if your cardigan sleeves are too short for proper hand expression?
five minutes, that's all you get. and it has to be perfection.
but you can't stop being a human for that space of time, so, you could actually screw it all up.
but then you take a deep breath and remember mom talking about the olympics, and how the gold medalist wasn't nervous because his coach just told him to do his job.
just do your job.
sing with love, she said.
i love HER.

maybe some more deep breathing will help my body understand how huge that apple was. sorry, stomach. you have to calm down for this.
after 2:47 pm when you walk out of that room you can start freaking out, intestines. you can say what the heck was that massive green thing you put inside me? or you can say, brooke, you do not know anything why did you put tights over the top of me? or you can say, i hate you. full reign and permission, but please, please, just hold off?

there's a lot of pleading that goes into these five minutes. seven months worth.
but my personal morning devo was about FAITH today.
and here i am.
and here i go.

" after ye have gotten into this strait and narrow path, i would ask if all is done? behold, i say unto you nay; for ye have not come thus far save it were by the word of Christ with unshaken faith in Him, relying wholly upon the merits of him who is mighty to save." --3 Nephi 31:19

Candyfreak

I love candy.

I love it!

Just ask Jared. I am constantly yelping out “I want CAAAAAAAANDY!”, asking him if he has any candy, or does he want to go get me some candy, or can we go on a trip to buy some candy at the store.

For some reason being with him fills me with an inexplicable desire to just eat candy. Go figure.

Note: this obsession with candy is about CHOCOLATE candy only. No nasty mints or air heads or nerds or whatever fake crap you want to throw in my face. Such junk should not even classify as candy. Okay. you may proceed.

I especially love mini candy. I have a thing against actual candy BARS—probably because my female mind has been trained to stay away from them at all cost. Empty calories and sugar and processed, ick!

But brightly wrapped, mini, FUN SIZE, melty, now that is a shimmering beacon of LOVE. I love candy.

So when I found out there was a memoir about candy, I was very happy and inspired and I felt like fluffy nougat inside, because someone was talking about something I love.

Just read this quote.

            “And if it seems, at times, that I am playing off my obsession with candy as something frivolous/heartwarming, this is, like most of our routines, just a way of obscuring its darker associations.”

               -Steve Almond, Candyfreak; A Journey Through The Chocolate Underbelly of America

 

Wow. Once I can afford rent I want to buy that book.

But! Maybe I will just buy candy.

This is It.

This application, this calling in life, this is my chance to be Michael Jackson.
He just says how he wants it to be—he has that inexplicable crystal clear vision. And this is his whole LIFE. This is what he comes home to at night—what he eats, breathes and sleeps. The Vision.
This is it.
Wow, sweet that I get to be MJ, huh.
And he loves it. He worships it. For the fans, for the sake of creating something incredible. To change people. To be wonderful.

Music is the constant surging power in my life, the driving force that pushes me or helps me be still or makes me dance or sing. But it is always the HEIGHT, the breadth and depth of every element of my life. For some, music is an added adornment, for special occasions—like powdered sugar. But for me, no. It is the lifeblood. This is it.

Music always gives back. It gives me everything, absolutely everything I need, and it's inside my own self—bubbling up through my blood, surging in the membranes of my cells, rattling my bones and flooding out through every pore, the little hairs on the back of my neck and my ear lobes and kneecaps and pinky toenails.

It is all inside me, and then, when I let it go, it is all around me. The sparks encase me in a bubble of the fountain of everything wonderful. It is so dynamic and vibrant and living; I feel I can for sure reach out and touch. I grab hold and we fly away...

 

Every time I walk into a room to play the piano and sing, I quote Denzel Washington in Remember the Titans: "Mmm, this is mah sanctuary," he says.

I say those words out loud, so they can bounce back and reverberate in me. I sit down and feel literal chills coursing through me—every time.

These things are the most real and resonant to my heart. I really know them. I really feel them. I'm kind of amazed by that.

It’s called AGHHHHHGGH.

My life is an explosion.

It is a huge, big, fat, combustible mass of music education and a boyfriend and fireworks and stress and rent checks.

It makes me want to plop down really hard every time I sit and be like, “Agggggghhhh.” AGHHHHH. AGHHHHHHHHGHGGG.

It makes me want to collapse my insides, fold them down like an accordion and put my head in my hands and say “UGHHHHHH.” UGGGGHHHHGGGGH.

 

BANG.

…………..!!?!!????explode.

I will stop this complaint as is, to spare you the melodrama.