The Day The Music Died/For Whom The Bell's Tolls/I'm On My Way to Uruguay

June 17th - the day the music died.

Confrontational by nature I have chosen to deal with this particular anniversary a bit differently. In October, when His birthday was upon us, I booked a trip to Southeast Asia and spent the 29th changing planes in Tokyo, so jet lagged and wanderlustful that it was easy to let the day go by, almost unnoticed. Now I have two separate days a year from which to escape - a welcomed excuse to travel, if not for the best reasons.

Today, June 17th 2015, I board a plane to Montevideo, Uruguay. I will arrive in this foreign land after touching down in both Houston and Rio de Janeiro - almost guaranteed to be too distracted with overpriced airport fare and restless upright slumber to see the sun rise and set on a day that changed my life entirely and forever.

I could talk about my father endlessly. From what I am told I always have.

Regardless of whether I was on a first date or on a transatlantic call with an old friend, my dad came up in nearly every conversation. He touched every part of my life in an incalculable way. Even when living 3000 miles apart it was he who I called to help me pick out an appropriate pair of running shoes. It was he who I forwarded inappropriate text messages from unsavory men to, hoping for some insight into the bewildering gender. He knew what I had had for lunch on any given day, because he was most likely on the phone with me when I ordered it. When someone is this involved in your life, their absence is felt in such a profound way that there is no safe place to hide.

Movies and books are simply things you want to discuss with the Shel Silverstein inspired missing piece.

Decisions to be made, contracts to be signed. Ensembles to be purchased. With a relationship this intimate and a bond this unbreakable, like the strands of DNA coursing through both of your veins, there is no possible way to detach.

I have a very kind, if very dim friend who recently suggested perhaps it was time to 'let go' of him. Now, I know this gentle giant meant well, but he is an idiot. There is no way I could let go of my father without erasing my very existence; without destroying who I am. What I can do, is manage the feeling of loss and the reality of a new life. In recent weeks I have likened this shift to diabetes. A condition that is not fatal, but chronic. One from which you can never be cured, but hopefully, through trial and error, you can manage - you can live with.

Trying to live with it; trying to #keepwalkingkeepwinning is what I have chosen to do. So here it goes...

What better way for me, a bit of a travel junkie, then to pack up my bag and head south to visit a new land and mark a year of torture, ready to turn the page on a new perspective, a new life?

This new perspective was in no small way aided by a recent health crisis.

Three weeks before my scheduled departure to Uruguay, a country about which I know absolutely nothing, I suffered a bit of paralysis. This was scary, sudden and very very unattractive. This physical manifestation of a 12 months of stress, sadness, love and loss could have made me sink deeper into the pool of depression in which I have been more than wading for some time now. It should have pushed me over the edge, but for some reason, awaking to a face that only half functions and a right hand too jittery from either nerve damage in my once so efficient brain or the meds used to help quell that has left me, better...

When your body starts to scream at you. When it starts to turn on you. You have no choice but to listen.

So I did what any grief stricken, partially paralyzed young woman would do to deal with the world falling down around her. I grabbed my camera, packed a duffle bag, and foraged forward.

Travel has it's ups and downs. There are always the rude passengers and endless lines, but being seated next to a nice young Mormon man on the Houston - Rio leg of my journey south of the equator allowed me to have a conversation about faith, marriage and family with a total stranger and, despite the fact that he asked about my own personal timeline for marriage and children, started my trip off in this positive vein, on in which I am attempting to live.

Having long harbored a fantasy of being a Latina through and through, the Rachel Dolezal of Afro-Latin America (yes - that was for you and yes, you know who you are...), being mistaken for a native in Brazil - flattered though I may be, was fantastically awkward as I don't know how to utter a Portuguese syllable yet alone understand a series of phrases and/or questions thrown in my direction, intensifying in speed and agility the more contorted my already stroke induced face looks.

Wedged into the last seat on the plane, confined to a space few Americans could fit according to the most recent obesity polls did not in any way stop me from uncomfortably passing out before take off on the last leg of my multi-stop voyage to Montevideo. I was awoken by the sounds of a snotty pubescent both figuratively and literally. Spoiled brat seems to transcend language and when my empathy for the teary teenage quickly gave way to disgust once I realized her tears were not over Sean Cassidy or the Biebs, but over the fact that she was not pleased to be served a muffin during the snack coarse on the plane. 

Off the plane and quickly ushered through immigration I grabbed some pesos, hopped in Angel's Mercedes cab and took what I only later realized as a $60 cab ride to Mercado del Puerto, the hotel at which I would be laying my head the next couple of days.

The drive in was at dusk and gorgeous and once I made an attempt to chat casually en espanol with my driver I settled into my South American sojourn.

Death, taxes and For Whom The Bell's tolls was left back on US soil, at least for the week, and the plan is to return, a woman reborn.

Wish me luck with that...

#100daysofart: Good Grief! Though Not So Good ...

Day 88

Good grief was one of those antiquated terms thrown around in my childhood household.
It was exclaimed, essentially, when I was being a pain in the ass. Therefore, it seemed, grief must be akin to some sort of annoyance, inconvenience or frustration.

Not until I lost my father did I understand what grief truly meant.

One year ago today, my father was still alive.

Tomorrow, he was not.

The reality of that statement is like an algebraic equation around which I cannot quite wrap my head. 

The fact that one moment this person was here, and the next they were not is unfathomable to me. It has been 351 days and I still don't quite get it. Sure, the concept is simple enough, but the reality is a whole other ball of wax. 

It was explained to me by friend who I know it meant well that everyone dies and this was just the way my dad went out - in a tragically unexpected and painfully avoidable manner. She went on to inquire as to whether or not my parents had ever explained the concept of death to me. Only feeling mildly defensive I remained quite and contemplative.

I have been experiencing loss, in the form of death, since I was a little girl. The concept was not a new one for me. Sadness surrounding the passing of that loved one - that was old hat. That pang of missing someone when you want to call and tell them about a new movie or share a story and realizing, as you pick up the phone that you simply cant. I get that. But nothing quite prepares you for true grief. A short word, but a long process. 


Honestly, not until months and months later did the idea sink in, permeating every corner of my life and effecting my thoughts, feelings and actions. A dark pall cast over every decision, every statement. Sometimes I want to try to explain to people upon first meeting that this isn't really me, because my dad is no longer here. I want to talk to my bosses about how my performance in no way could be tip top because my mind is so constantly occupied, not thinking of anything in particular, yet everything all at once. My mind is utterly elsewhere. I want to let my partner know that I can be better, and I will be better, just as soon as they find a cure for this pesky grief. But, as any thoughtful adult knows, you simply cannot do that. Though Corky is no longer here to illustrate this point, life goes on - and so must I. 

I must face facts that I can only do the best I can with the given circumstances and, though the current ones may seem to suck ass - it is what it is. No excuses or explanations, only slowly chipping away at the crippling aspect of the aftermath and belief that things will get better and that the dark pall cast over my life will lift eventually and I will once again feel the sun on my face ... at least I hope so!

Try as you might to avoid grief, it gets you. #100 days of art was a project I took on both to feed my soul and to help me process; help me survive my grief. Below you can find the final days of my project, both random as well as fraught with meaning. Just like life.

Day 89

Day 90

Day 91

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Day 100

#100daysofart: #keepwalkingkeepwinning

I chose to take on this project as a cathartic and positive way in which to focus my energy during a difficult time. At that time, 87 days ago, I did not anticipate things becoming MORE difficult, but I suppose that is just how life works out, sometimes. Below are a myriad of ways in which I have chosen to express myself, despite available resources, geographical location, or emotional state of well being. 

A wise man once hashtagged (seemingly oxymoronic, I know) #keepwalkingkeepwinning. I am putting faith in his words, his beliefs and his person and carrying on, moving forward and hopefully - winning. 

Day 68

Day 69

Day 70

Day 71

Day 72

Day 73

Day 74

Day 75

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Day 77

Day 78

Day 79

Day 80

Day 81

Day 82

Day 83

Day 85

Day 86

Day 87

#100daysofart: The Past Twenty Days

I was convinced to join Twitter several years ago when away on a press trip in Beverton, Oregon. It was begrudgingly that I succumbed to these media savvy moguls, when insisted it was necessary to have a social media presence to be a professional force. I had quit Facebook voluntarily and cold turkey many years before, immediately following a break up - a choice that was absolutely right for me and one I would recommend for anyone who finds themselves in those unfortunate circumstances. When branding myself @beheardphoto and creating my Twitter handle I declared that I refused to ever tweet out what I was having for lunch or a selfie of my makeup for the day, as I found the 15 minutes everyone so desperately needed to be rather nauseating. That being said, I saw the benefit when traffic to my website would increase with a simple handful of characters thrown out into cyberspace.

Then came Instagram with it's simple symmetry and even simpler concept I felt, as a photographer, it seemed like an obvious marriage or marketing and visuals. I would document shoots in which I was partaking, or international travel. It was all part of the 'brand.'

The #100daysofartchallenge I chose to take on 67 days ago was a journey I embarked upon because I am in a place in my life where I will do anything to be happier, more centered, and healthier. I saw this as workout regime for my creative muscles. And that it has been. 

The task of creating something everyday has been a welcome challenge and I am actually pleased with a number of the results, glad that I am determined to create, whether or not the final product comes out the way I had envisioned before putting pen to paper. What I did not bargain for was the visual vulnerability I would be putting out there in a way I have tried to avoid by and large.

For a girl who refuses to put her likeness on the internet, I will write, in my travel logs, with true honesty. There is a nakedness in my words. For some reason, when looking at my oeuvre of work in this Instagram challenge, at least to this point, the literal illustration of the emotional journey over the past 20 days makes me feel more naked than any words I have ever written.  Without those chosen words revealing my inner most thoughts, fears and turmoil and rather, a visual representation, almost by accident, it is, for lack of a better word - scary. These things I am making, often with no conscious motive in my head, makes me feel very exposed, like that nightmare where you show up at high school naked. Uncomfortable to say the least. 

Now, I cannot complain about something I am willingly partaking in, but I can say this public therapy may very well be my last foray into social media. I am well aware that it is a useful tool for work, but for me I am not so sure it is a useful tool for life. That being said, I appreciate those who look, like and discuss my work and am glad to have embarked upon this journey. And I will most certainly enjoy ending it - at least publicly. 

Only 33 to go. My exact age - coincidence?

Day 48

Day 49

Day 50

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Day 53 

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