2012 Year in Review

The sheer amount of life that occurred in 2012 astounds me. It’s impossible for me to believe that everything happened that did, and yet it did. Somehow.

The list is endless, the highlights are: 

• I fundraised, choreographed and rechoreographed, workshopped and coached, and then shepparded and took care of three dancers to perform in a festival in Paris, a stressful, frustrating, and magical time that took me back to my beloved city and back among my friends, and left me with something to be really proud of. 
• I graduated magna cum laude from Columbia University. 
• I co-produced a showcase, fought and coached dancers much more experienced than me in two pieces, and somehow got it onstage in Manhattan. 
• After a semester of planning, applying for a grant and not getting it, communication, I bought a one-way ticket to the other side of the world and left Manhattan in the middle of the night like a refugee, flying 16 hours in the company of the Indonesian navy.

And then there was Cambodia.

And I don’t know what to say about that, except that it was nothing like what I expected and now I’m having trouble remembering what it was I was expecting. I have no ability to intellectualize the country. I wasn’t lost, or changed, or fundamentally altered as in Paris, at least, not to my knowledge, but I must be because this place which was so strange is not so much anymore.

In six months, I found four jobs, two apartments, several friends, got to a very basic level in the language, organized a showcase, danced in a performance, gave four workshops to over forty students, got addicted to rice and learned how to deal with fish heads, got in one bike crash, one moto accident and several more near misses, got sick a couple times, spent two weeks in Siem Reap and saw the temples, learned and taught Thriller, met some amazing artists, and rethought my entire life plan at least twice.

The highlights are:

•  The first time my kids invited me to eat with them after the workshop performance.
• Meeting Linda, who I’m still looking for,
• Dancing in a real performance again, and
• All the many times I looked around and realized I was the only Barang, and yet being totally accepted by the surrounding crowd.

The greatest gift I received this year was a realization sometime in September that had been germinating for quite some time, since I met the Beyond in Paris. I had been obsessing over the latest One That Got Away, and the Ones Who Got Away before that, and feeling down about learning that I was making half as much money as I thought I was.

Resistance is the struggle between what is and what you think should be. Let go of what should be, embrace what is, and create from there.

I found a way to live out the axiom that things are the way they are and that’s that. I don’t believe there is any other or higher meaning than that. It’s just the way it is and everything is always perfect, even if it was different. Every possible reality is as perfect as this one is. 

And the resistance went away. I enter the next year much more peaceful, and much more zen. I know what I have, what I don’t, and that’s where I begin.

In the next year, I’m looking forward to seeing what comes of this crazy adventure called Cambodia. I’m looking forward to:

• Taking some time to rest and relax and process, having not done so in a year,
• My trip home and to Paris in March and April to reset and touch base with the places and people I love the most,
• Setting a show of my own in motion here and moving towards my dreams,
• Improving my Khmer and deepening my understanding of Khmer culture and life,
• Being open to the richness and vibrancy of the arts and of life here with all of its caveats,
• Keeping in close contact with the people I love the most and hopefully seeing some for visits here, and
• Traveling around the region, saving a little money, and getting some things on my wishlist.

The past two years I've ended these year in reviews with little sayings, goals I guess, what I want people to say about me, but this year I have nothing, in line with my realization. What is, is, what I am, I am, where I am, I am. Sometime along the way, that became enough.

We meet again, wayfaring stranger

I figured it was time to restart the blog. You'll notice some changes, in the title, the look, and the link. The previous incarnation of the blog was "A Dancer in Paris", which is all well and good except that this dancer is no longer in Paris. The previous chronicle her year abroad, which I can safely say was the most life-changing, enriching experience that I have ever had, hands down.

Oh yes. That dancer, the one who was in Paris, is me. At least, I think so. We've met, and are learning who the other is.

So what can I tell you? The last time you saw me, I had lost my ability to speak. To this day, I struggle to find the words to say what Paris meant. Not the city, not by itself. The year. What happened. All I can say is that I lost everything and found it all twice over, and came out the other side a new -- and better -- person.

Right now I'm in New York. How long I'm going to be here is uncertain. Through June, at least, and in the meantime I'm graduating from college. Sometimes I'm scared, but mostly excited. So much time, and so much life. I have a lot of exciting projects in the works that will no doubt get references on the blog.

What is the blog for, anyway? I can't promise too much.  You know me, and how I get distracted by life. I hope to just share some of my enthusiasm and the various lessons that get thrown at me, for whatever its worth. If only so I remember. (Remembering. Remind me to mention that later.)

And finally, what's with the title? The Pixie Dust Chronicle? I'm embracing my lifelong admiration of Tinkerbell - whom I always wanted to be when I grow up - and working to find my own magic. We could all use a little pixie dust, methinks...

We'll see each other soon, I think.

Paris vs. New York: A layman's view

Hey, look at that, TWO posts in one day!! Let me put it this way: being just sick enough to stay at home and not quite too sick to be flat on your back (like yesterday) has its way of being impossible boring. And so since childish computer games can only hold their appeal for so long, I thought of this subject and thought I'd write a bit.

(Disclaimer: I have an Inner Poet. Thank you).

Paris and New York are particularly related to me -- two cities I have up and moved to for school, not knowing really anyone, the surrounding geography, or street names. It happens sometimes (surprisingly often in my life, actually). However, I'm not the only one. A lot of Parisians apparently love New York, and often go to live there. I did not know this, but you can speak only French and mostly get by in New York. Go figure. They say it's the most European city in the US -- I'm not exactly sure why, but I suppose it works.

The thing is, though, is that while they are linked psychologically, they are nothing alike. As far as their characters -- yes, they move a lot, yes they are big cities and thus have more in common than, say, Cheyenne Wyoming and Los Angeles might -- they are -- well. Nothing alike.

I knew that was the case from the beginning but could never quite put my finger on it, besides the obvious (HINT: it has to do with a thousand years or two of history, but I saw it the other day when Darcy and I went up the Tour Montparnasse and looked at Paris from way up high.

Here's something you need to know about New York: Seen from up high, especially at night, New York is impossibly beautiful. It makes sense from up there -- the grids, the lights, the sky scrapers jostling for a position in the skyline, the endless, twinkling lights lights lights, and you just can't hear the madness from up here. All the cars, or most of them, are yellow, and everything could be glamorous.

The truth is, bluntly, is that Paris just doesn't make sense from above. There is no rhyme or reason, and from above it just makes things confusing. The buildings, from the most part, look alike, and there is no street pattern -- they wind around each other in no particular order, spitting out onto the occasional grand boulevard. Here and there, the great monuments pop up, the space around them strangely and bizarrely empty, as though they have warning fences around them. Do Not Touch, it seems to say. Historically Important.

No, from above, the character of Paris is wiped out-- because it's here, on the streets, below the buildings. Only from here you can see the differences, the different types of balconies. Only from here can you see what's hiding under the eaves of the boutiques of the Rez-des-chaussées. The boulangeries, épiceries, patisseries, brasseries, cafés...you can't see it from above, but that's where Paris lives. On the streets, in the cafés. The conversations, the people, the cigarette butts scattered everywhere. The motorcycles taking never before seen traffic liberties.

Because the thing is, history is taken for granted here, even as people cling desperately to it. No monuments must be changed. If it's historical, it must be preserved. The boulangerie that you go to everyday has always been there and probably will be.

In many ways, Paris has become, I think, a museum city, sometimes cold and unchanging like the somber austerity of the Pantheon, which for being the home of the great men, feels numb to me. The city is filled with museums of course but the city itself is a museum.

In contrast, New York is new. It breathes. It changes. Of course, it lives through its street vendors and taxi drivers and the bum you always see on the corner, but the thing about New York is that all of things build up to this bigger entity, almost, that has no real faces but everyone knows what it looks like. From above, it makes sense. Paris is only made up of what it is.

Of course I couldn't tell you which one I prefer. I think I've mentioned that I fell into living in Paris as easily as breathing, while in New York, I just loved it. Two different characters for two different cities, and if I could tell you which one or either may find me in the years to come, I would be a rich psychic.

Bisous à tous.