tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29916552686334127012024-02-18T20:00:09.353-08:00Is this Real Life?My brain.Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-60824130199712215812012-02-20T18:02:00.002-08:002014-03-01T17:13:00.190-08:00Acoustic vs. Electric<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Brantley and I have been writing new songs lately. <br />
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Actually, this guy is ALWAYS writing new songs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixh8vLwoD4rwZUzh4KSuTRzzl_k_mA-1TiqgTiOPtjApSGNfLtxIAsHkG9fr33IxwRuGx-nhhcB9P_5CvtxXoy1dlkoqXuSY-EjXuHKbBnJqxeSLSK1n76O4TKvAOMZPk7Pf-9LsZfZEMJ/s1600/photo-11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixh8vLwoD4rwZUzh4KSuTRzzl_k_mA-1TiqgTiOPtjApSGNfLtxIAsHkG9fr33IxwRuGx-nhhcB9P_5CvtxXoy1dlkoqXuSY-EjXuHKbBnJqxeSLSK1n76O4TKvAOMZPk7Pf-9LsZfZEMJ/s200/photo-11.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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I on occasion add a chorus or a verse, but rarely do we both sit down and write together. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj951zfqPX7gpXmtP5rXxH4Co8MsWzpjMdGwzkJ074EPc4khmPAHLT08cGNUAkknL6-Xv9b44TlEcHlhLmYjulXPDzsxNsGS1UbUwVBYQhuZ6eE_n62Bgn6LGzKayVOlIloIAG8MwJI_uVY/s1600/photo-12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj951zfqPX7gpXmtP5rXxH4Co8MsWzpjMdGwzkJ074EPc4khmPAHLT08cGNUAkknL6-Xv9b44TlEcHlhLmYjulXPDzsxNsGS1UbUwVBYQhuZ6eE_n62Bgn6LGzKayVOlIloIAG8MwJI_uVY/s200/photo-12.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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We've written three new songs over the last month, they aren't exactly where we want them to be so I'm only posting one that probably won't change too much. The most frustrating aspect about writing and recording (at home) is that WE don't have a full band. The songs end up feeling sort of empty in my opinion because it's a home recording (garage band), my voice and Brantley's guitar. There is much missing. One day we will record this song with a few other instruments! In the meantime, here is what we have.<br />
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Acoustic Version.<br />
<a href="http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/i-am">http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/i-am</a><br />
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vs.<br />
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Electric version. Full disclosure: We recorded this at 3A last Saturday night after whiskey & champagne.<br />
<a href="http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/electric-i-am">http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/electric-i-am</a><br />
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Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-3191366381327528302012-01-18T18:41:00.000-08:002012-01-18T19:30:45.033-08:00Hide Your Face - New Song, Newer Year.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Happy New Year!! Yeah. Yeah. I know I'm a few weeks late.<br />
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I had two weeks away from work over the Holidays! Thank GOD! I was pretty much burned out on everything including getting out of bed. Before the break, I was working and schooling and mothering and girlfriending and not doing any singing or any creating. <br />
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Anyway, here is a song that I BIRTHED during my holiday...<br />
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<a href="http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/hide-your-face"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;">http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/hide-your-face</span></a><br />
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One thing I should add: I don't normally make New Year's resolutions per say. I guess I try to think of ways to better myself or ways to make the new year worth my time without actually making a committment because I have a small amount of self-control. God, I hate admitting that. So... I have decided that WORKING myself to the bone is not a year well spent, although (hopefully) it will one day be rewarding. The problem is I have issues with hyper-focusing on ONE task while other pieces of my life find themselves forgotten. This year I am setting one night a week aside to write a new song. I sort of ripped this idea off from my cousin Josh - Thanks, Josh.<br />
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Anyway, I hope to upload new songs each week or every other week to my rarely used/viewed blog. <br />
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One must cross their fingers.</div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-25683714566696005042011-11-28T21:16:00.001-08:002011-11-29T18:35:07.667-08:00Welcome to Tinseltown!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You're invited to our housewarming/holiday party. </div>
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Please read below!</div>
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The theme is 2012 infused with the 1960s.</div>
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Think Soho and Greenwich Village in the early 60s.</div>
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These images are to help guide your fashion decisions for our holiday party - next Saturday. YES, it is imperative that you dress in theme for the night. Just think of it as your night to be a fashion icon in Dothan. If you'd rather not dress up than you probably wouldn't have much fun anyway. I will have a yummy appetizer spread prepared by the loveliest of lovelies with plenty of punch and champagne. Although, it wouldn't hurt to bring a bottle of something in case of a shortage. </div>
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Cheers to lots of tinsel!</div>
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<br /></div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-14343791877380674242011-09-03T15:23:00.000-07:002011-09-03T21:22:12.793-07:00Satisfaction: an act of satisfying; contentment; fulfillment; gratification<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When does life not get in the way of living? When do you make decisions based on what you really <b>want</b> and not what you really<b> need</b>? Patience is a <b>virtue</b>, I remind myself. Yet, all I've done is <b>wait</b>. Perhaps that is the problem of my youth. I waited. I based decisions on my feelings instead of <b>logic</b>. I reacted. I didn't see past the present long enough to see a tangible future. Someone told me once in aggravation, "All I hear from you is how you feel, Holly, and what you want!" Then he basically told me to get over it and grow up. I agreed. It sucks to be unsatisfied with what's in front of you, always needing more. A few months after that I wasn't blindly feeling my way through life.<br />
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I was waking up in the morning when my alarm went off.<br />
I was working towards something at work instead of haplessly clocking in for a paycheck.<br />
I was being a mother rather then pretending by going through the motions.<br />
I felt proud of myself. <br />
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Two or so years later, I <b>feel</b> I've accomplished a few goals that were important at the time. I'm not miserably living in a town I find to be dead. Don't get me wrong. I still live in that town, only I'm not miserable. I have a career. I'm am back in school to finish my degree. I'm madly in love with my daughter. I have a seemingly "normal" life. Yet, the same emptiness I felt two years ago finds me. I'm not where I want to be and I don't know that I'm any closer to being there. I want to live in a place that is saturated with art - a place where music is all around me, a place where everyone is different though no one is judged for being them-self. I want to<b> create </b>everyday. I want to flourish because the people around me are creating and for them the same. I want music. I want to learn. I want to experience.<br />
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Two more requests for my life:<br />
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1. I don't want to hear that I'm being fantastical because I believe it's possible to live and create everyday.<br />
2. I don't want to work in order to live. <br />
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Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-41388885251032315712011-06-15T14:53:00.000-07:002011-06-15T14:53:08.949-07:00Beatrice Orville<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
Yesterday, I deleted my Facebook page!!! Let me re-phrase. I deactivated my page. <br />
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I had a semi-creepster comment on practically all of my photos. I showed up for work (8:30AM) popped open my laptop, clickety clicked clicked to Facebook and BAM!! There was 80 notifications 70 of which belonged to the perp. Freaking nuts. Anyway, I was like, "Peace Holly Roberts' Facebook Page!" Shit has gotten too real. Ha! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4FjF0nNMufyP0vGEFcxD83dDdnXrTMLCuyBfcYm-OuLoN7FpqHNg9T9PGU1jtyNT0EuH_uZhv8KlPTu8NAp7ZSQK2dPwywxpV0CBavweB1iGy7sbdo-NT1sml-JJqk1RHMw3qHsFowEfZ/s1600/106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4FjF0nNMufyP0vGEFcxD83dDdnXrTMLCuyBfcYm-OuLoN7FpqHNg9T9PGU1jtyNT0EuH_uZhv8KlPTu8NAp7ZSQK2dPwywxpV0CBavweB1iGy7sbdo-NT1sml-JJqk1RHMw3qHsFowEfZ/s1600/106.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sketch by Jessy Helms</td></tr>
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Anyway, I am slowing weening (did I spell that right?) myself off of this particular social network. Now, I will introduce you to my new page, Beatrice Orville. She is so perfect. <br />
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How I found the name: <br />
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1. Beatrice is my favorite name right now. Q. Guess what her nickname would be? A. B! Jay-Z calls Beyonce "B" in the intros of most of their songs together. So when fictional B listens to those songs she pretends that Jigga Man is talking to her. Genius! <br />
2. Orville is a family name. My father's name is Freddie Orville Roberts III. My brother's name is Freddie Orville Roberts IV. I love Orville.<br />
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Thanks for being my friend.<br />
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Say "NO" to random Facebook friends!<br />
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</div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-52664838821583535792011-05-16T14:11:00.000-07:002011-05-17T09:15:47.451-07:00Fleet Foxes for President.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I saw Fleet Foxes in the flesh at the Tabernacle on Saturday!!!!!!!<br />
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I am still high from the experience. No joke. It will go on the memory trophy shelf in my <b>brizain.</b> If I have a death bed before I take my last breath it will not be my family or lovers that draw kindly upon in my last few moments on Earth, but instead it will be the harmonies of the<b> Fleet Foxies</b>. I will think of May 14, 2012 as I take my last breath. <br />
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kasd;klfjdklsjf;sakjf;k!<br />
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Sorry, I got carried away. Apologies.<br />
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They were pretty amazing. I had goose bumps the entire night. Robin Pecknold sounded better than he does in the studio. Their harmonies were perfect. The crowd was entirely sucked into the music. I love it when thousands of people are completely silent. The show was over, or so we thought. The band finished their last song and they walked off stage, swallowed too quickly by the curtains. I didn't realize it then, but it was obviously planned for them to leave without playing their new single, "Helplessness Blues." The crowd went nuts and we literally screamed, clapped and stomped until they brought their <b><i>wonder</i></b> back to us. After all the roaring, front man Robin Pecknold came back on stage.<br />
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</div>He picked up his guitar and began playing "Oliver James" all by his lonesome. The entire venue fell silent. It was beautiful to watch the audience become entranced by the front man's sound. After "Oliver James," the rest of the band took stage. They ended the night with their single, which has inspired them enough to name their album after the song. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://kroq.radio.com/2011/02/01/free-download-fleet-foxes-helplessness-blues/">http://kroq.radio.com/2011/02/01/free-download-fleet-foxes-helplessness-blues/</a></div><br />
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I made two VERY important purchases prior to the show.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDt1BOXvrDoRcGkMnhizBh94tRS7hZMUebGRLpr2SjH_iQ2JuiytjafP-KE-uukGBciyBb8bPOtmiIZfvt_B6RLX805X8ZAGI5GqXZV_XTL_UIK-Fngyaxg6kBdp74J3AfV-1Bm84AmAf/s1600/Album+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDt1BOXvrDoRcGkMnhizBh94tRS7hZMUebGRLpr2SjH_iQ2JuiytjafP-KE-uukGBciyBb8bPOtmiIZfvt_B6RLX805X8ZAGI5GqXZV_XTL_UIK-Fngyaxg6kBdp74J3AfV-1Bm84AmAf/s1600/Album+cover.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A shirt with the cover printed on the front side. Yes, you will see me in this shirt like everyday probably. I wore it yesterday and I'm wearing it now. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A print for a wall in my bedroom.</td></tr>
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</div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-4558834283338402792011-05-12T07:13:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:40:31.916-07:00A Song We Wrote.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hello World:<br />
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I would like to introduce you all to a song that Brantley & I wrote like the fifth time we hung out. Ha! Yes, I said the fifth time we hung out. I'm a dork. I sorta remember those things - Cheeeeesy. <br />
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Anyway, I had this little chunk of a song that I sang along to while thumbing around on the guitar. It sounded like an intro to another song or something. I never thought it would actually turn into an actual song until the Brantster came along. I played it for him one night and he picked it right up and it became an actually chord progression instead of my clumsy fingers picking a couple strings. Actually, I will show you a clip of my clumsy finger version of the song...it's the first minute or so of the clip...I was playing it as an intro so it made the entire clip <b>way</b> too long.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1276994649816&comments&set=t.1378484988&type=1">http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1276994649816&comments&set=t.1378484988&type=1</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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Okay so here is the aftermath of my thumbing around. We recorded this on the fly...no editing...no warming up...blah blah blah. Hope you enjoy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/our-song">http://soundcloud.com/hollybells/our-song</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Shout Outs: Mad props to Mr. & Mrs. Jackson for the time & space of a man cave.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-62121189010764264802011-05-05T12:28:00.000-07:002011-05-05T12:28:57.329-07:00Timber Timbre<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Greetings!!<br />
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It's been 8 days since my last post which means I've been busy.<br />
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I've been wanting to post this for the last week but haven't so here goes...<br />
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<br />
I hate covering songs. Well, I shouldn't say that I hate it. But, it has become quite painful for me. Despite the aching, I do think it's interesting to cover a song by making the song my own. I can't help it either way. If I'm singing a cover it's most likely not the same as the studio version. I promise, I don't do it on purpose. I just sing it in a form that is natural to me which could be annoying if you are a die hard fan of a band and then some mediocre singer comes along and rearranges a song that you love. Anyway, one of my favorite song to cover is a Timber Timbre song called "Demon Host". I was obsessed with it like a year ago and asked my boyfriend to play it for me so I could sing - he's my guitar slave. Long story short, we found a harmony that I love to sing with him. Every time we play this song is on the top of my list. (I apologize to all the folks who have heard it over and over- I love you!) Seriously though the song feels like home to me. And, there I go with my damn existential dramatics. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Original</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/-Tfw8SqeFEE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Cover</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/LvDss2vgJa8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>.</div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-89814328758475351322011-04-29T10:55:00.000-07:002011-04-29T10:55:36.629-07:00Ramblings.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I find myself to be down more than up. Other days, I'm up more than down. Do you ever feel it's never good enough? Like when life presents itself, you look the other way? In search for something. Something more. Something dark. Something real. Maybe inside of you? Something in the air. Under the ground. in the ground.<br />
<br />
This freethinking. It's always been a problem. I remembering being a child. It happened in the back of a car. Red leather seats. BMW. It was on the way to church. My first thought. Black. Nothing. Nothing but an endless universe. Dark shades with amber flares. But nothing. No heaven. No hell. No soul floating through time and space. Hunting for a body to inhabit.<br />
<br />
And now I'm here. </div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-11544353646442866382011-04-26T13:54:00.000-07:002011-04-26T13:54:02.658-07:00Ella Stories: Farewells & Alien Birthdays<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Last Night was a sad night for my family. We met at La Parilla for my Brother and Re-Re's bon-voyage dinner. For the record, the <b style="color: black;">ll's</b> are silent in<b> Pari<span style="color: #bf9000;">ll</span>a</b> and I think there is supposed to be another<b style="color: red;"> <span style="color: black;">r</span></b> in there as well but don't quote me. Back to Rebecka and Freddy... they have been in the States for about a month now and have to return home to Lidkoping, Sweden. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4mJcjdhK1ZSBQH4WrX4k1Eu2mtV0u3yyRK43yMKEsnJfRNii0RGT48NVG0mM3myPttXXU8JjMDoYaNhjWX_yq364b8WIpcl2qmj-ZoypOrcKzHdoKADqeOCDutoHu_m8eHi9kLJ2IiJU/s1600/200033_10150113715920124_678675123_7007100_1365159_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4mJcjdhK1ZSBQH4WrX4k1Eu2mtV0u3yyRK43yMKEsnJfRNii0RGT48NVG0mM3myPttXXU8JjMDoYaNhjWX_yq364b8WIpcl2qmj-ZoypOrcKzHdoKADqeOCDutoHu_m8eHi9kLJ2IiJU/s320/200033_10150113715920124_678675123_7007100_1365159_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They look like models, right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I've gotten used to the duo being a part of my every day life. In fact, I kind of ignored the reality that they don't actually live here. What is the saying? <i>Ignorance is bliss. </i><br />
<br />
During dinner my sister Mallorie decided she would prank her husband Michael by telling our server it was his birthday. It's not actually until May 1st, but it's close enough. The La Parilla crew swarmed around our table! The "Happy Birthday Sombrero" was placed upon Micheal's head and the crew sang loudly. After the song was over they pulled out a polaroid, snapped a picture of the birthday boy. Ella jumped up and made her way into the frame as soon she saw the camera. It's like the minute you want the kid to take a pic she is running the opposite direction, but throw her in a situation where the spotlight isn't resting on her brow and La Parilla becomes Broadway.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6s2Ck-5LP6jmFrUu_lVLT6I9jGRAcQwjLNNQRlJCL1-l9oFUkaYnffKuD6zjYCXmgZt-LpNkjsprt7wFcPcNTZfdvDNliHVyPmOkY0Is8XWsaYRd1_NEoA2AI1R8yv4GcCrmxrMmD1yJ/s1600/IMG00027-20110425-1943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6s2Ck-5LP6jmFrUu_lVLT6I9jGRAcQwjLNNQRlJCL1-l9oFUkaYnffKuD6zjYCXmgZt-LpNkjsprt7wFcPcNTZfdvDNliHVyPmOkY0Is8XWsaYRd1_NEoA2AI1R8yv4GcCrmxrMmD1yJ/s320/IMG00027-20110425-1943.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Ella was very upset after we left. She cried in the parking lot and then more and more in the car. As soon as we got home it was off to bed. She went to her room, put on her jammies. Most nights she grabs like 5 or so stuffed animals to put in bed with her. But, last night she decided she needed <b>every</b> single stuffed animal she owns to accompany her in bed. I kissed and tucked in each of them.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EtnmWjX41PCO8EZmUPhGsgveaJhcbmbFMFal3jKKH_uLco2cxTEd9UBdpQTe9-4JEQ4whvXOKQo7xDFBRZWaTunj7P6pzctdyK7dEKQ3ZksRZ0c6ahlnknoU30PYf52p09xBjMNspRpr/s1600/IMG00028-20110425-2027%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EtnmWjX41PCO8EZmUPhGsgveaJhcbmbFMFal3jKKH_uLco2cxTEd9UBdpQTe9-4JEQ4whvXOKQo7xDFBRZWaTunj7P6pzctdyK7dEKQ3ZksRZ0c6ahlnknoU30PYf52p09xBjMNspRpr/s320/IMG00028-20110425-2027%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQEO_5cbM4t-DX22i2fZm3v04Kut6UOpUdZz-xmxEAl3vjvZUnLCxqvChhnpNYGVuJFRq_gtm6iIKiI2zGonoHnzYPARVJGyttyKp-ipDBV9FsThqoYmuRhvebhsWCdUpdwl7Ql0BKzVP/s1600/IMG00029-20110425-2027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQEO_5cbM4t-DX22i2fZm3v04Kut6UOpUdZz-xmxEAl3vjvZUnLCxqvChhnpNYGVuJFRq_gtm6iIKiI2zGonoHnzYPARVJGyttyKp-ipDBV9FsThqoYmuRhvebhsWCdUpdwl7Ql0BKzVP/s320/IMG00029-20110425-2027.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to right: teddy 1, teddy 2, dolly 1, shelf elf made of scrap-wood at school, paper stuffed gingerbread man with one eye, giant cupcake, dolly 2, more stuffed animals.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-45623018338515873802011-04-25T14:44:00.000-07:002011-10-31T18:52:44.096-07:00Dothan Meets BrownChicken BrownCow String Band<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was fortunate enough to meet the four piece string band, <i>BrownChicken BrownCow</i>, last September. My friends, Kristen and Jeremy Hester got hitched and called on <i>BCBC</i> for entertainment. Brantley and I were playing music for the wedding as well, so we were thrown into a "Hi, nice to meet you. Lets make music together!" situation.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpwXfVvXljBg8XQ2dmqNqKq0iEy3jWu1qB-cxHQMcDvsMVn5JWpW7G8gV38PN_2MjR53LcN3cMnl6UiJazQ8vUp8hACJYOlaOtBXjAt-ZZ7MrvBcQcv4s1RgIMTiH9A9fIl46r8XHZFpd/s1600/23554_1368141928441_1378484988_1012452_7198208_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpwXfVvXljBg8XQ2dmqNqKq0iEy3jWu1qB-cxHQMcDvsMVn5JWpW7G8gV38PN_2MjR53LcN3cMnl6UiJazQ8vUp8hACJYOlaOtBXjAt-ZZ7MrvBcQcv4s1RgIMTiH9A9fIl46r8XHZFpd/s320/23554_1368141928441_1378484988_1012452_7198208_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
meets</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBlWd9gcQxKzkrkI0tdEx-kAGgiTI_5RI6zXEzy0mOdQOwN0G8Y71yvLqmVZcp5agUS4IhCm_o39DFUBcRK5tdv185S6KPFkb_s_GwHVI_rNj8oV5lRtUBZ-aCYqmzNV95XeG-o43_3PP/s1600/224792_10150166305803723_83341173722_7033945_3879343_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBlWd9gcQxKzkrkI0tdEx-kAGgiTI_5RI6zXEzy0mOdQOwN0G8Y71yvLqmVZcp5agUS4IhCm_o39DFUBcRK5tdv185S6KPFkb_s_GwHVI_rNj8oV5lRtUBZ-aCYqmzNV95XeG-o43_3PP/s320/224792_10150166305803723_83341173722_7033945_3879343_n.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I felt it was sublime, although I'm not sure how <i>BCBC</i> felt being stuck with us! It's not everyday that I meet talented musicians who play for their livelihood. The band travels like 10 months out of the year and yes, practice does make perfect. It was clear after the first note resonated, these musicians were above my level and I turned into a sponge longing to absorb their sound. <br />
<br />
Last week, I had another opportunity to hang with<i> BrownChicken BrownCow</i>, which I will write about soon.<br />
<br />
I noticed once again, but this time in more depth...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Music means so much more to them than anyone I've ever met. It's their lifestyle and they live in this crazy bohemian mode of creation. These gentleman haven't compromised themselves for any object. </span></span><br />
<br />
Most of us are tied down by our responsibilities - our duties to provide or to live. Our comfort of living consists of homes, cars, cell phones, internet, restaurants, clothes, furniture, yada yada... The list literally goes on and on.<br />
<br />
Contrary to the rest of us,<i> BCBC</i> lives in a van full of their possessions which is basically instruments, clothes and cooking supplies. Nothing ties them to any particular town or city - holy shit, I'm jealous. They are gypsies roaming the country in search of new experiences, exploring their surroundings while giving their sound to all they meet. It's no wonder that people flock to them as if they have healing powers. Maybe, if I touch the brims of their hats, I will be able to play the strings of some sort.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmhafxFfcFzXs4qbAEi5G66gY_nFNW6AEt-_eDO621pnuNKjUDFIg0W-AZsvqEu2UdLyHUtZ727TxFQbgXj1T-OsrM77PvTdfBd_QojwUG-ERgephg2y5mqMiPJ3JTbRaaRrzF9ZJK5ga/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmhafxFfcFzXs4qbAEi5G66gY_nFNW6AEt-_eDO621pnuNKjUDFIg0W-AZsvqEu2UdLyHUtZ727TxFQbgXj1T-OsrM77PvTdfBd_QojwUG-ERgephg2y5mqMiPJ3JTbRaaRrzF9ZJK5ga/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dothan meets BrownChicken BrownCow String Band</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">To be honest, I am insanely jealous of them. I desire to be where they are which is to create a world that ties me to nothing except to my art, to my craft. </span></span><br />
<br /></div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-37501316961290750982011-04-22T10:53:00.000-07:002011-10-31T18:54:31.176-07:00Balance.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Finding balance is like mastering the art of a tedious craft. How can I master all the pieces of myself?<br />
<br />
-Career<br />
-Motherhood<br />
-Creative Outlets<br />
-Music<br />
-Social life<br />
<br />
blah blah blah. You get it. I'm sure.<br />
<br />
I find myself to be halfhearted in many aspects of my life. It's like I wake up every morning only to go through the motions as I did the day before. I'm on the go-go-go most days and when I have time to breathe I want to scream. At the end of the day, I've done little to please myself. <br />
<br />
Music was this place I would go when I was bubbling over with joy or when I was full of sorrow. It was a place that I could find myself in the most raw form. I could channel this current of expression - pulling from my past and those around me. I could take a lyric and find a bond - singing from the depths of the song's core. More importantly, I could feel.<br />
<br />
It's hard to find that place any longer.<br />
<br />
Perhaps, I'm growing up. Whatever it is, I am not a fan. </div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-69227003106840012582011-04-20T12:56:00.000-07:002011-04-21T07:30:09.344-07:00Memory vs. Reality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiiZ1Hjh4CfPHmKUbcpQmIUmjtkpMm6UKfiPIbQdteh-faQAtTfb_ujkNMATePX9f2VCywfpnvvDgTqp-77Zfa9Huj-xfWO6NhEJM67EvxZDgPRztwK-4efktdIqbm6XNOvVYi_bdN6DX/s1600/New+York.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiiZ1Hjh4CfPHmKUbcpQmIUmjtkpMm6UKfiPIbQdteh-faQAtTfb_ujkNMATePX9f2VCywfpnvvDgTqp-77Zfa9Huj-xfWO6NhEJM67EvxZDgPRztwK-4efktdIqbm6XNOvVYi_bdN6DX/s320/New+York.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me on the right at 7 or 8. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>When I was about five years old I became very ill with pneumonia. It was the night before Easter Sunday. I was shivering and sweating in my little twin bed. I remember my mother, grandmother and father at bedside. They were frantically moving from my room to hallway discussing options for my care. One would put a wet rag on my forehead while another held my hand praying for my recovering. I knew instinctively that something serious was happening not to mention I was delirious. At some point in the night my temperature had risen to an all time high. The next thing I remember was being in a hospital room with my Dad. My Mom and Grandma decided to stay home with my two sisters. Don't forget it was Easter Sunday the next day. We had our usual plans of church and an egg hunt which included our new matching Easter dresses and hats.<br />
<br />
The nurses brought a white plastic tub full of ice and water for me to sit inside. I guess the ice water was meant to break my temperature. The nurse tried and tried to coerce me into diving in the freezing cold tub, but I was stubborn and sick. There was absolutely <b>NO</b> way I was putting a toe in that tub. One thing everyone should know about the pre-adolescent version of myself... I was the definition of a brat. Seriously, my parents should have called the<b> super nanny</b> because I was out of control.<br />
<br />
Example of my bratty-ness : My grandma loves to tell people this particular story... Once I was throwing a fit because my grandma was putting church shoes on my feet but I wanted to wear my red elf boots. Apparently my mother had given my G-Ma strict instructions to not let me wear my beloved boots. In fact, it went something like this: "Whatever you do, mom. Do not let Holly wear those red elf boots!" I was attached to them and wore them everywhere except to church. Anyway, I was screaming and shouting at my grandma and in my rage I went to the refrigerator, opened the door to grab eggs. What did "little brat" Holly do with the eggs? She threw them on the floor breaking them into pieces all over, leaving raw eggs smashed everywhere for poor G-Ma to clean. (Yes, I should be slapped <b>now</b> for that.) Anyway, my Grandma says she sat down on the floor and sobbed. Little Holly walked up to her and touch the back of her head and said, "I'm sorry, grandma. I will wear the shoes." <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5ynw9HxkSN5L2KXue1ouKXgHSn18sJrVA-Eymk46XhG_WAIRubUxA1vIQYvIjpN0Xvn2yjngezWLvsVZLITatTJRHfa6HByYfE6KidHD5cKzhTWMu67bY7B5waPDNO_tTjTBJkwi4rF1/s1600/tumblr_lderwscYEZ1qbqg18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5ynw9HxkSN5L2KXue1ouKXgHSn18sJrVA-Eymk46XhG_WAIRubUxA1vIQYvIjpN0Xvn2yjngezWLvsVZLITatTJRHfa6HByYfE6KidHD5cKzhTWMu67bY7B5waPDNO_tTjTBJkwi4rF1/s320/tumblr_lderwscYEZ1qbqg18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Definitely worth the fight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The whole point of the side note was to explain how much of a brat I was at the time. The nurses were struggling with me to get in the cold water and their endeavors weren't going anywhere. They gave up.<br />
<br />
The next morning was better for my pneumonia. I remember looking out of the window in my hospital room - watching the cars pull in and out of the parking lot. There were so many different colors of cars yet they somehow blended. It was like the parking lot had its own color scheme.<br />
<br />
It was Easter Sunday and I was stuck in a hospital while the rest of my friends and family were searching for colorful eggs filled with candy. <br />
<br />
I will now admit that none of my pneumonia story is true. However, I did grow up thinking it really happened. Up until like 5 years ago did I find out it wasn't reality. I wanted to reminisce with my mom about this fatal night but she treated me like I was a mental patient. I thought she was a terrible mother for not remembering so I went to my grandma to discuss the terrible event we had experienced together. She had no idea what I was talking about. Yeah, my dad didn't remember either.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoE_ru5RF4Te9PgaE-hj7u9AhFNP-ELMn38GdEpSUs5T9Bh-FLwpyvu4t0D1mxigLUlknpidHNM1qxy0WuJYPl__n9LROz6m43zbGjmbNPNFTyOFDjJpa1nraUXO_ndFnggJSAnIQBMETo/s1600/images1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoE_ru5RF4Te9PgaE-hj7u9AhFNP-ELMn38GdEpSUs5T9Bh-FLwpyvu4t0D1mxigLUlknpidHNM1qxy0WuJYPl__n9LROz6m43zbGjmbNPNFTyOFDjJpa1nraUXO_ndFnggJSAnIQBMETo/s1600/images1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uhh?! Which way did he go George?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
My conclusion:<br />
A) It was a dream that I totally confused with reality.<br />
B) It was a memory from a past life.<br />
C) It really happened and my family sucks for not remembering.<br />
D) I made up an elaborate lie that I told for so long that I eventually believed it.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-17026549608330198342011-04-16T16:31:00.000-07:002011-04-16T16:31:44.738-07:00This: Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Today I was thinking about how dull we all are as a human race. Everything has already been done. Everything has already been said. Originality is practically obsolete. Or am I wrong? I think that we are all essentially doing the same things over and over. I'm typing these thoughts of mine and someone else most likely had these thoughts 20 years ago. What is the point if generations of people are running in circles only gaining a small amount of higher ground.<br />
<br />
<b>This</b> must all sound very pessimistic even still I can't seem to get away from the swirls and twirls of my brain.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX7wPJ0zxFYGi7zm0oyX0BdammWvCwhbYiISrWMg0usfmb-b2NM0uQliDqjn0BBdVvRHajqFiGseTcWsYJ0D0zZu43RlDQQrngLThgvGOKMNGwYHeDFa4PYVveq0fb_Ofq5HwzPTNloohu/s1600/glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX7wPJ0zxFYGi7zm0oyX0BdammWvCwhbYiISrWMg0usfmb-b2NM0uQliDqjn0BBdVvRHajqFiGseTcWsYJ0D0zZu43RlDQQrngLThgvGOKMNGwYHeDFa4PYVveq0fb_Ofq5HwzPTNloohu/s1600/glass.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You tell me. Is this glass half empty or half full? My answer depends on my mood.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>How much is society really changing for the greater good? What is the greater good? I <b>feel</b> we are just these animals repeating ourselves over and over.<br />
<br />
War after war.<br />
Murder after murder.<br />
Debt after debt.<br />
Leader after leader.<br />
Love after love.<br />
Expression after Expression.<br />
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How are we unique from our fathers? What sets us a part from our past? Yes, there are the obvious changes: technology, fashion, economic, etc. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQd7t2m2ZoyQOFZwrXZ4KNh8owez-hdA5f2-D_qs6BIPdbKFn-Mn4N50QgvJthBG2OZqpXHDGV3vhaMz4kCYZ0hQSn9YUkUG6C0QPQLLzVJnaqMPAY7Mly9xej6r9LycL_iB6m8xf6tTA/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQd7t2m2ZoyQOFZwrXZ4KNh8owez-hdA5f2-D_qs6BIPdbKFn-Mn4N50QgvJthBG2OZqpXHDGV3vhaMz4kCYZ0hQSn9YUkUG6C0QPQLLzVJnaqMPAY7Mly9xej6r9LycL_iB6m8xf6tTA/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCLK5uf5oNsaCJBihJ2KFdPsluVJkXdVrpAqdkY7zfL1p5Zz_Dn2U3VvZxIHT74Iy8Uiybgekz_SM9NokLzfaKSXoe9cI7OuHtgx5JOp5IEQJoAvFp-FWft_TRXA5tCOpXEt2AzpbD1az/s1600/images6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCLK5uf5oNsaCJBihJ2KFdPsluVJkXdVrpAqdkY7zfL1p5Zz_Dn2U3VvZxIHT74Iy8Uiybgekz_SM9NokLzfaKSXoe9cI7OuHtgx5JOp5IEQJoAvFp-FWft_TRXA5tCOpXEt2AzpbD1az/s1600/images6.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-uHHq3_VAWHQxcinDCjEY5n0yiCXFwojc4JLDXYxELydkWKeZY7TjDCe0A3ttmZeVugayQCo5Tb4opiZqU5SDx9GFELjMf3HhyphenhyphenrndDO8CIxMzNhSN1t6OxJj_Eu0HWlm-qNkswxyao0q/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-uHHq3_VAWHQxcinDCjEY5n0yiCXFwojc4JLDXYxELydkWKeZY7TjDCe0A3ttmZeVugayQCo5Tb4opiZqU5SDx9GFELjMf3HhyphenhyphenrndDO8CIxMzNhSN1t6OxJj_Eu0HWlm-qNkswxyao0q/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But what is peculiar of our race in this day in age? How have progressed as beings? Perhaps more people are literate then in years past. I hope. The world is still chaotic with turmoil running rampant in our governments. Have we ever really known a time of peace? It seems that peace for one means pain for another. <br />
I don't know. <br />
<br />
When I think of "humanity" in these terms, I feel hopeless. What is the point of our existence if the majority of us are all doing the same thing while a small percentage actually pushes through the barrier of mediocrity?<br />
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(breathe)<br />
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</div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-66661000978378572032011-04-11T14:40:00.000-07:002011-04-11T14:40:39.773-07:00Reading is Fun.<div style="text-align: center;">I started a new book this weekend. </div> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILiBjqBhYn4w4qBsO0usP-NwTDsIb7sLeRSBWbNtvdqQvsBJJ19twHIv3ZV5QMcXLWwmNXEEIy-_ksu5ekrMhnvHVuQITjcsBbyF08piENa1gTMf7gmxZtTlaP7-YvRTIn17T6niyjCSL/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILiBjqBhYn4w4qBsO0usP-NwTDsIb7sLeRSBWbNtvdqQvsBJJ19twHIv3ZV5QMcXLWwmNXEEIy-_ksu5ekrMhnvHVuQITjcsBbyF08piENa1gTMf7gmxZtTlaP7-YvRTIn17T6niyjCSL/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just Kids</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
I knew I would love it before turning to the first page because Johnny Depp was quoted on the back of the book. He told me it was a treasure and a privilege to read. I trust Johnny Depp with my life as I'm sure you do. I was hooked after reading the six paragraph foreword. Patti Smith evoked a tremendous amount of emotion from me in a few sentences which is unusual. Normally, I have to make myself cry and fail miserably in the process. Something bad happens and my inner dialogue goes a little something like this: <i>"Holly, you should really cry right now. This is terrible and it would probably make you feel better if you get it all out. Come on Holly! I know there are tears behind those eyeballs. Let it rain!" </i>And then I turn on the water faucet because I've heard listening to water trinkle helps you tinkle. It has to work with tear ducts too, right?<i> </i>Then I put on a theatrical performance and pretend to cry because maybe it will turn into real emotion. None of that ever works! I concede that I am an emotionless prick or perhaps I'm dehydrated.<br />
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After admitting the trouble I have with tears, I will say that literature, art and music pulls more emotion from me than from any social/personal problem.<br />
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I wept like a mourning mother when I thought Harry Potter was killed by Lord Voldemort at the end of "The Deathly Hallows". Not to compare Patti Smith and Harry Potter in the slightest. These books are on two different planes. Although now it sounds like fun to complete an essay based on their comparisons.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjaxo7hImcAzFlTc2GzBK4syFzdUeLIh3wCfltnVjn8LQ7QYL3QP9WGm5-B93GD3WIjhxe5jjdLQU3KIzrCjmsxZFj9pHNw0rMVwwACQs_jWtRBQOzzlz7a5QXN_mAVtP59Jw4x7cSnsx/s1600/images1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjaxo7hImcAzFlTc2GzBK4syFzdUeLIh3wCfltnVjn8LQ7QYL3QP9WGm5-B93GD3WIjhxe5jjdLQU3KIzrCjmsxZFj9pHNw0rMVwwACQs_jWtRBQOzzlz7a5QXN_mAVtP59Jw4x7cSnsx/s1600/images1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock n Roll Outlaw</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8oIfeW7Yn6NIvA-gsbsFL-jvkADIOf-XofuedKgKOtWvQxxcp7d5sHxlE8Pe20ejp_Cx0sz5crBG7j6W7QrXI2ZlmEGBS_3UFgWcASmvl5bYZ8UP4eMIRMVMIIrfYx0oHrKxWv-Kc_G1/s1600/hp1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8oIfeW7Yn6NIvA-gsbsFL-jvkADIOf-XofuedKgKOtWvQxxcp7d5sHxlE8Pe20ejp_Cx0sz5crBG7j6W7QrXI2ZlmEGBS_3UFgWcASmvl5bYZ8UP4eMIRMVMIIrfYx0oHrKxWv-Kc_G1/s1600/hp1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wizard Outlaw</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Enough of the comedy and on to the formidable. I could<b> try</b> to summarize this book but there is so much happening that I can't put my finger on one specific premise. It's an ode to art and music, to personal expression and exploration and to companionship and love. I've read the first one hundred pages so far. Right now Patti and Robert are moving into the Hotel Chelsea. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMNiGpCanP5k6DfZ0vLKmCwBKUaI-3hivZz4rTCVDwHaEynK41GxOs2T8EGwuKNb3u3kxOFn6M4ik3gH5wpUm6ja7JP5Nz1oxJiNLMMxT9xedro0dPQRunrDFh9s0UAxYwQFyKeoBzBgK/s1600/chels+hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMNiGpCanP5k6DfZ0vLKmCwBKUaI-3hivZz4rTCVDwHaEynK41GxOs2T8EGwuKNb3u3kxOFn6M4ik3gH5wpUm6ja7JP5Nz1oxJiNLMMxT9xedro0dPQRunrDFh9s0UAxYwQFyKeoBzBgK/s1600/chels+hotel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For $57 a week, room 1017 became home for the pair. Apparently, this was the smallest room in the Chelsea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>They are young artists or<b> "just kids"</b> on the verge of breakdown and breakthrough. They are experimenting their way through the late 60's and on the forefront of their wildest dreams. Patti's descriptions are poetically vivid. I sort of channel her words as if they are my memories she is recanting, constantly dropping the book to close my eyes and breathe. Yay for empathy!! <br />
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Pick up this book! Please.Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-75979758544161782402011-04-06T14:01:00.000-07:002011-04-06T14:01:58.270-07:00It is was it is.<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;">I have a seven year old daughter. Her name is <b>Ella</b>.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGM40HlFQdz9DkNI0MDBE1hxtPQJw0ioe9c9azzdcJ6_8_ETzOL765nrRBOzocWzgo3nVG7Ie5e8HThchjQ5ugAdmi7d8avCea6_bXo3r_hPCVi3hENTbIKS2DYQ0ZQQdSQtkLGgVUTPj/s1600/11639_104736952870930_100000038760653_133354_1168575_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGM40HlFQdz9DkNI0MDBE1hxtPQJw0ioe9c9azzdcJ6_8_ETzOL765nrRBOzocWzgo3nVG7Ie5e8HThchjQ5ugAdmi7d8avCea6_bXo3r_hPCVi3hENTbIKS2DYQ0ZQQdSQtkLGgVUTPj/s320/11639_104736952870930_100000038760653_133354_1168575_n.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;">Her nickname is <b>Booshka</b>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBD15lT6atgInwBjxBOf-hv9jiGCidrDApNXflYf4oZSyZdRQ2LLdqhq1bOhM3ybx0UXs0wltge2yv7cqdAI6COLnHRML-j7fzZLo74D_cgPmtWbUTD4u6AKZHBTG1GXOZcXF5a9MrHY8q/s1600/IMG00210-20110320-1236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBD15lT6atgInwBjxBOf-hv9jiGCidrDApNXflYf4oZSyZdRQ2LLdqhq1bOhM3ybx0UXs0wltge2yv7cqdAI6COLnHRML-j7fzZLo74D_cgPmtWbUTD4u6AKZHBTG1GXOZcXF5a9MrHY8q/s320/IMG00210-20110320-1236.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;">I was 20 years plus four days old when Ella exited my womb, makes me cringe just thinking about it. I had no clue about being a mother. I could barely stand on my own feet. I hadn't started college. Prior to pregnancy, I was on a journey of exploration like most kids in their 20s minus the pregnancy part. I was in the process of figuring shit out. Figuring shit out contained a lot of who, what, where and whens for me. I seriously doubt that one day I would have stumbled on all the answers. I think I was just searching for adventure and experience. Like I said, I was completely dumbfounded. Despite the immaturity and cluelessness, my maternal<b><span style="color: red;"> </span></b><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;">instincts</span></span> kicked in the minute I was preggers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;">I've heard it is different for every woman. Some women don't fall in love with their offspring at all which is understandable. Believe me, I get it! One day, I LOVE being a mother and the next day I would prefer to wipe my <b>own</b> ass and not a whiny toddlers. I don't wipe Ella's bum anymore, thank god. Although, it did take her a while to admit she could do it herself. I can't blame her, most people don't like getting their hands dirty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;">Anyway, I'm not super mom and I don't go around screaming MOTHERHOOD like I once screamed GIRL POWER as a tween. I try my best as Ella's mother<b> </b>without losing <b>myself</b>. It is what it is. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfhyAyabop-j19m3bzFKXZ_ihqCefZKekFQMHrMHYWRPFEYpn2FCX4ABNiZz5izUXRSdMbjJlsUN9XlGy-BQExvSi4RUDmqeAKYP5lJyuL42u-O_p5okuPsjnQjo6euLOpPOa8_iEolV-/s1600/Ella+%252877+of+153%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfhyAyabop-j19m3bzFKXZ_ihqCefZKekFQMHrMHYWRPFEYpn2FCX4ABNiZz5izUXRSdMbjJlsUN9XlGy-BQExvSi4RUDmqeAKYP5lJyuL42u-O_p5okuPsjnQjo6euLOpPOa8_iEolV-/s320/Ella+%252877+of+153%2529.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"> (Mommy Action Shot)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Dialogue from yesterday:</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Me: So... Na-Na got a tattoo today. (Na-Na is my mom)</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ella: Whaaat?! Why didn't you stop her??</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Me: Why would I stop her?</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ella: Because it's a stupid idea for an old lady to get a tattoo! She's almost 50!</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Me: hakdhkjdsakfjasdljf!!! (that was me laughing)</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And, then I picked up my phone to tell someone what Ella had just said. I couldn't resist sharing. </div>Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2991655268633412701.post-84637742514963269582011-03-28T09:09:00.001-07:002011-03-30T14:06:08.212-07:00The This & The ThatSome people talk, blog, journal to make sense of their head and all it's belongings. I really don't do anything to make sense of myself. I tend to ignore. I equate it to having bad organizational skills.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">This is my brain </div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">This is your brain</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Okay so maybe I am exaggerating a little bit about my brain because Amy Winohouse is obviously smoking the crack rock and my brain is free of chemicals but you get my point. I have a hard time "organizing" most anything. Example: Inside my house is a giant heap of clothes, dishes, mail, junk, etc. I clean/readjust my mess every so often. It happens a couple times a month. I'll hear a few comments from my mother or daughter or boyfriend, so I bite the bullet and tidy up. Or... I schedule a "get together" at my casa, therefore I am forced to make my space spic and span. Did I write that phrase correctly? Spic and Span? What does that even mean? <br />
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Anyway, back to my point! <br />
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I think my brain functions in the same way. It's like there is a big heap of this and that mulling around. This is mixed with that and that is probably not important. Even so, I should just deal with <b>the this </b>and <b>the that</b> because it's there and it's not going anywhere until I move along. <br />
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Side-note: If I were famous, it would be for my vaugeness or inability to be precise. (same thing, right)<br />
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<b>The this</b> and <b>the that</b> are, but not limited to as follows...<br />
-mundane issues that occurred recently or long ago<br />
-mommy/daddy afflictions (dramatic, I know.)<br />
-desires that I deny myself<br />
-current events that matter or don't matter<br />
-god and who/what i'm not sure he/she means to me<br />
-motherhood<br />
-obsessions that have never been expressed<br />
-money<br />
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Point: There are all these objects in my brain that have become sediments soaking at the bottom. I don't <b>deal </b>with them. Nevertheless they're still up there needing to be addressed. What does that mean to <b>"deal"</b>? I know that<b style="color: #cccccc;"> <span style="color: #999999;">dealing</span></b> is <b style="color: #666666;">coping</b> and<span style="color: #666666;"> </span><b style="color: #444444;">coping</b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span>is <b style="color: black;">confronting</b>?<br />
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Uhh...brain seizure scheduled in .4 seconds if I continue to think.Southern Chic.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05546625790054163907noreply@blogger.com1