Do Mi Mi. Mi So So. Re Fa Fa. La Ti Ti.

The first time I bought a Maxwell album I was 16, freshly driver’s licensed, and taking every advantage of summertime self-transportation freedom. After spending the day with my devastatingly handsome, and soon-to-be-16-year-old boyfriend [cradle robber!], my voyage back to The Valley through Hollywood allowed me the joys of traffic and radio “seek” button pushing. The dial landed on the most sensual falsetto tones I had ever heard [take notes, Robin Thicke]. Years away from actually doing the deed, I imagined if it was done correctly, sex would make me feel similar to how mesmerized I was by his incredible harmonies and romantic lyrics. Needless to say, instead of driving straight home, my car found its way to the Tower Records [do they still have those?] near the Beverly Center Mall.

Now, before fancy-schmancy car radios displayed the name of the song & artist you are listening to, one had to wait for the DJ to tell you the name of the artists in the previous set, which could take ages if the set was particularly long and heaven help you if you had to sit through a commercial break. I hadn’t the patience. So, when I walked into the store, I found an employee and sang him the part of the song I could remember; he directed me towards the R&B section and asked me to re-sing it for his co-worker who happened to know Maxwell’s repertoire well because his girlfriend also developed swoon-y tendencies when his voice seeped through the airwaves.

I became a fan for life.

As a writer, sometimes you simply need to give credit where it is due and I feel the screenplay of Forrest Gump [one of the greatest films of my generation] sums up my sentiments well: You know, it's funny what a young man recollects. 'Cause I don't remember being born. I don't recall what I got for my first Christmas and I don't know when I went on my first outdoor picnic. But, I do remember the first time I heard the sweetest voice in the wide world.

While Maxwell can not hold a candle to Jenny Gump’s beauty, I completely understand where he is coming from.

To this day, whenever I hear a song from this particular album, every ounce of me is transported to the sweltering heat of that car, to the longing I had to feel about someone the way the lyrics described, to the contentment with all that traffic, prolonging the time I had to experience his music for the first time.

They say elements of life are cyclical. Music, fashion, and trends more generally are said to rise like a phoenix. Just when you never thought you’d see bellbottoms again, there they are on your teenage daughter. Remakes of films and recycling of other artists’ devotion to their craft are making current “artists” wealthy [ex. Michael Bublé, the poor man’s Frank Sinatra]. My hope is that whatever musical cycle we are in gets thrown off its axis soon because I miss music. I miss lyrics. I miss instrumentation. I miss helplessly turning into the parking lot of Tower Records because my soul refuses to go one more day without listening to that song I just heard. So to anyone reading this: If you are a lyricist, a member of an orchestra, a band member, a lover of real music or an in-the-shower-singer, do not stop creating.

With any luck, we are on the brink of a musical revolution and we all need to be warmed up when the time arrives.

~carter

THE DAILY VICTORIES PROJECT

I do not journal. 

I am fairly certain not journaling is the sole sin a self-proclaimed writer can commit. But, in the interest of complete honesty, there you have it: I am a jotter-downer, a blogger, and a list-maker mais je ne suis pas une journal-er. 

It is no surprise to all who have ears around me that I have embraced the world of weight loss and fitness. This past week, although I ate fairly healthily and exercised, I gained a pound. [I know, I know, call the waaa-mbulance. But to someone who has created a plan and weighs herself every week, on the same day, one entire pound felt like an abysmal failure]. Not only did I feel terribly, I felt terribly about feeling terribly in the first place. Mired in this foolish state, I decided to turn to writing because…well, it couldn’t hurt. I proceeded to write a list of positive occurrences from this week alone: 

1)   I am fitter than I was in high school. Getting better with age trumps peaking at 17.
2)   I have run the farthest I have ever run [in my life] without stopping to walk.
3)   I managed to go an entire day without spending any money
…etc. 

What I was able to deduce from this enumeration is that while I was blindly focused on a scale’s numbers, the life I was leading was not too shabby. 

[Cue The Epiphany] 

[Enter, The Daily Victories Project]

I know I am not the only person who allows herself to become utterly transfixed by one very specific issue of the day and lose sight of the fact that there’s actually a forest amid those trees. Amassing a list of daily positive occurrences is as close as I will ever be to becoming a successful journal-er and I do not want to do it alone. 

Consider this an invitation, blog reader, to join me in our daily affirmation that at least ONE event [no matter how small] has added a modicum of positivity to our own existence. 

Now, this does not have to be fitness related or fall under a larger theme. Anything from I took a different route to work that shaved two minutes off my commute to My son actually brushed his teeth without my saying so to Nothing of note occurred today but a higher power was gracious enough to wake me can find its way to The Daily Victories Project. 

If you are like me and enjoy having a friend [or a few hundred anonymous internet viewers] to help keep you accountable, I would love to see your #theDVP entries grace the wall of the L.O.T. Blog Fan Page [http://www.facebook.com/lotblog] or in the comment section of this post, for you anti-facebookers.

Let’s do this together.

Let’s go viral. 

...And who knows, perhaps if we are all too busy pinpointing our daily victories, we won’t have the time to violently confront unarmed teenagers, plot the destruction of storied athletic competitions or look upon each other with disdain simply because our skin tones don’t match.
Join The Movement.
#theDVP
~carter 

...And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

Clad in businesswoman attire and sneakers, my heels remain tucked away in my messenger bag, situated near the umbrella, trail mix, Nalgene, and iPad.

I am a commuter.

Once a phenomenon as foreign to me as parallel parking, [see post dated May 3^rd] I have grown to admire the public transportation facet of my east coast way of life. While some benefits are monetary, an element that most commuters take for granted is the chance to engage with [and oftentimes literally bump into] those around you. During my Los Angelena life, the world of human interaction was stunted by metal behemoths linearly trapped on the 405. Any “bumping into” that occurs here is expensive, if not fatal, and altogether an unenjoyable experience.

On the T, however, [or Train to you non-Boston residents] a morning trek into the city becomes a series of vignettes that even the most cynical of early-risers could appreciate:

Thursday morning, I ventured underground to find an elderly guitar player whose voice [note for note and tone for tone] is indistinguishable from Steve Perry’s [lead singer of Journey]. At first I was hit with a mixture of surprise and intrigue, but before my train had arrived, these emotions shifted to heart-wrenching disappointment that this man wasn’t a San Francisco native in the early 1970’s when Journey ached for its front man. Who dictates that his fate was meant for the morning commuters’ enjoyment and not for sold-out arenas? I suppose destiny can be categorized as a future post of its own.

Next up, a tweenager with impeccable posture, high-bun, pale pink tights, loose shorts and wrap-around sweater seemed unforgivably late for her Center Stage 3 audition, as her frantic, doting and less well-groomed mother tried to follow her daughter’s long, elegant strides.

This people-watching Elysium is not simply marked by the ability to catch glimpses into the lives of others, it forces complete strangers to occupy the same space; a microcosm of the exterior world. Amid this congested study in human behavior, every individual’s patience, personal spatial relations, and varying levels of courtesy are tested for the duration of the journey. Class systems and racial homogeneity differ from stop to stop; a frequent commuter may recognize what part of town rests above by taking note of those entering or exiting the train car.

One easily concluded notion is that while on the train, every commuter awaits the start of his/her day’s activities. The commute is the means by which the above ground day can begin. But if we all remain on auto-pilot awaiting our final stop, we miss the fact that life and activity are happening around us.

The ballerina’s mother may not have had time to fix her own hair or check her own appearance in the mirror, but she did not forget a single eight-count of her daughter’s choreography which they recited together repeatedly until their stop arrived. While I will never know what monumental performance awaited her or how well she fared, I pray [as a daughter who has spent years and thousands of miles away from her mother] that this young woman remembers the most poignant moment of her day occurred as her selfless recitation partner put the needs and dreams of her daughter before her own. It is not the destination that matters most, kid, it is the commute. And if you are very, very lucky, you will get to disembark the train with the same loving person who frantically pushed others aside for you to make it there on time.

~carter

I Refused To Buy All New Bras [Or, The Catalyst]

Almost two months ago, I decided to make some life adjustments with the hopeful [read: skeptical and anxiety inducing] intent to shed some poundage. And on this blessèd day, I vowed to get my Carrie Bradshaw/Bridget Jones hybrid persona on and write about my first milestone: the mourning of 20 pounds. Well, here it is folks: Me, 20 actual pounds down from the first day I began my new life.

Ta-Da!

I have been looking forward to writing this post partially because I knew I would write it as a fitter, trimmer me, and partially because it has been looming on my Blog Topics To Write list and I do enjoy a good red-pen cross out session, complete with victory dance and relevant musical selection [Today's Choice: Part of Me by Katy Perry].

I have always been a broad [albeit well-proportioned] gal and my consistently sunny personality has never quite been tied to my dress size. So when I began this [ever-evolving] journey, I spent the first few exercise and veggie-filled weeks trying to envision what I would look like. Now that I am on the other side, I do not feel the contentment I imagined would await me; instead, there is a veritable hunger [ironically] for more. I recognize I am just beginning to form the habits that will keep me healthy for the rest of my life and that is what makes me most excited and inspires me to take on the next leg of my weight loss marathon. I would like to make it clear that 20 pounds ago, I did not like myself any less and I will not love myself any more 20 pounds from today. I have, however, discovered a certain pride that comes with keeping myself accountable. As a burgeoning blogger, I find moments in each day to add to my never-ending list of potential topics. However, it is a consistent internal battle when coming to the conclusion of how much of myself I am willing to share. No one wants to read a blog about privileged moments stocked with bunnies and rainbows, yet, exposing insecurities and emotional hardships can seem just as unappealing when it is your life projected across the screen. So it was necessary for me to make a decision: No matter how vulnerable I may feel, write it. Luckily, the inevitable sense of dread occurs for about as long as it takes to hit the SUBMIT button.

...and then there I am, out in the open.

This is the post I promised myself I would write. I wanted to take the mystery away and prove that weight loss is not some magician's trick others have been able to master. I wanted to do real push-ups. I wanted to fit better in my clothes. I wanted to buy new clothes. But I would be damned if my own body would force me to render my cute bras obsolete...the road to healthy living and weight loss begins differently for each individual.

As a writer, the ability to create a precise and well-developed character [from nothing] has haunted every blank page I cross. And for this creator, there is a me in my head that has yet to grace the scene.

Stay tuned,

~carter