My dreams are haunting me. Not the sort that come when I’m asleep. It’s those that come during my waking hours; the endless ideas that flash past my inner eye, pestering me, poking me incessantly, and attempting to spur me into action. But they are ridiculous at times, how can I possibly take the first step into brining them into this world? For example, every time I see escalators, which is quite often as I’ve been moseying through cities quite a lot as of late, I picture the escalator flash mob and choreographed dance I’ve seen play through my head a thousand times or more. I watch street musicians busking in the Bangkok streets and I get a flash vision of a festival where busking was a regulated and encouraged element, yet another message promoting personal creative expression.
Ah and then there is Pretty lights. . .Oh Pretty lights how your music tears my soul into shreds with its artful breaks and seamless combination of music styles from across the century. Their music lights up a certain place in me that I have never seen before. I cannot shake my conviction that I must collaborate with them at some point. That will be my pinnacle, the star at the top of the arch of my career as a dancer. That is my ultimate dream. I want to create events and build and build my company until I can afford to enlist the talents of Pretty Lights and then I will bring forth the proposal of a multi hoop dancer choreographed piece to one or several of his songs. Oh ultimate bliss. If I do ever make it to that moment, of dancing to Pretty Lights before an ocean of people, I could simply just die right then and there. I’d be satisfied.
It’s enough pressure to make a heart collapse from the pain. I WANT all of my ideas to come into reality. It’s as if they have a power of their own and they have come to me begging to be brought to life. So I scribble them down as best I can before they flit off to the next person, their next potential portal into this world. But a scribble. . . what a pale comparison to the wonder I see ignite behind my eyes, the full color visions that play just to me, begging, please, make me happen.
Recently I’ve been seeing an abundance of flash mobs happen in my head. One of my favorite of late is a bubble parade where thousands of participants flood the streets with waves of bubbles big and small. BYO bubbles would be encouraged for participants but for those wanting to join little bottles of bubbles could be passed out for free. Bubbles are pretty cheap so it would be feasible to purchase boxes of bubbles. A quick search on google shows that when bought in bulk each bottle can cost $1 or less depending on the size bottle. Hell sidewalk vendors could even sell them at $1 a pop and cover the cost. Or for $2 a pop and the proceeds could be donated to a charity. But details aside, a calm breezy San Francisco day could provide the absolute perfect conditions for a bubble bonanza.
And yes, to add to my misery the backdrop to my visions is inevitably San Francisco. Despite all the reasons why I am afraid to root down in America right now and why SF in particularly is a daunting potential home, SF is the place I am inexplicably drawn to, where my ideas call me to plant them so they may blossom.
But why bubbles you might ask? Well I have a great answer for that: I have absolutely no clue. Why not bubbles? Why do we humans partake in artistic expression in the first place? But above all, why do these ideas pick me to pester? All I know is that sometimes when I close my eyes I am transported into a potential future where the most beautifully bizarre scenes are possible. Where I can just about feel the breeze, tinged with brine, brush my face as my eyes take in millions of bubbles rising from the streets, from the people, pure joy in little ephemeral packages soaring to the sun.
A fiery fairy who has set off to explore Asia and discover new things about the world and herself. The journey is one to fully realize her strength and an unwaivering faith in her personal power.