culture – Page 12 – Britt Skrabanek

The Fork in the Road

A few years ago, another dancer and I were driving back home, in the kind of beat-up car you’d expect a starving artist to cruise around in. Almost an exact replica of the one from Wayne’s World, but without the sweet licorice dispenser.

It was one of those odd days right before fall. Fog and mist became strangely smitten with one another, only to be broken up by a sunny afternoon floozy that appeared, then disappeared, until it was easily forgotten beneath a resurgence of damp and dreary fervor.

I remember this day well, because it was damn grueling.

It was a long drive after an even longer day spent shooting a short film. This short film “Missed Connections” was a bit of a retro musical, with me as one of the Busby girls, while my driving dancer buddy was the choreographer. It was shown at the Milwaukee Film Festival, as well as many other festivals around the States.

(Despite the silly story that follows, being a part of this film was an incredible experience.)

Anywho, on set one of the spirited hair stylists thought, despite my incessant warnings, that some retro finger waves would work on me. They didn’t.

And every time we stopped filming, she came dashing over to blind me with hairspray and stab me with bobby pins.

After ten or so hours of filming, running the dance sequences over and over again – here, there, and everywhere – my failed chic style had been gelled and sprayed so many times that it looked like I was sporting a large slug on my head.

On top of all that, I was in a skimpy leotard that I barely squeezed my ass into and wore borrowed heels which were too small. Every time they changed that camera lens, it was the kiss of death…do it all again, from the top.

For crying out loud! Somebody put me, my feet, my hair, and my uniboob out of our misery!

So, you get the picture. I was exhausted in a car with a slimy slug on my head.

It’s funny the things that we think about when we’re so tired, the kind of internal state that matches the thick haze outside. This uninvited calm often makes us reckless, in a good way.

That day in the car we had a conversation that stayed with me.

Both with day jobs, I was a dancer/writer and she was a dancer/visual artist, so we started talking about how we juggled it all.

Interestingly enough, we two go-getters came to an alarming conclusion. You can’t.

If your creativity is split in half, the fork in the road, neither direction will fulfill you. And, how in the hell can this lead to any sort of success?

Each road will be there and you may drive and drive and drive without stopping, but then you’ll run out of gas. And your desperate ass will be hitchhiking, wondering where it all went wrong.

Around this time last year, after a lifetime of dancing, I stopped. It wasn’t even a planned thing, it just happened. I became deeply involved with my Yoga practice and completed my teacher training last summer.

Then, in my usual Britt fashion, I took that too far.

I started a wellness/Yoga blog, accompanying social media channels, and taught like crazy…four days a week. All this time I was trying to squeeze in my day job, keep up with this blog and my third book, and eat, sleep, and live.

Where was my free time? That beautiful time to decompress and enjoy, to reflect and be open to inspiration. There wasn’t much, sometimes there wasn’t any.

The last half of 2013 I debated between a Yoga career and a writing career.

Sure, I wanted both. Did I have the time and energy to give both my full attention in my minimal spare time? No.

Naturally I tried my hardest, but it drained me.

By December I knew I had to choose. And, quite frankly, the choice surprised me.

Technically, a Yoga career would be the easier option. Wellness and health are in demand as they are a service, one where the cost can be validated.

Fiction writers struggle to make ends meet and it takes a long time to get your name out there. Art is subjective, difficult to put a price on, and bloody hell…there’s just so much of it out there!

But in the end, I chose writing.

After a month without posting, I decided to shut down my All the Way Yoga blog and social media, as well as free up my schedule by giving up two of the Yoga classes I was teaching each week.

It was hard, but it wasn’t painfully difficult. So, I knew it was the right thing for me to do.

I had become just like that hairstylist on set, determined to make the retro finger waves work on stubborn hair, putting more product, more pins, and more effort into all of it.

I went back to that conversation I had in the beat-up car after that long day of filming, with a slug on my head and a leotard hiked up my butt.

When I came face to face with exhaustion once more, I was taken down a notch. There I was again, idling at that damn fork in the road.

It’s not about limitations. It’s also not about going for something and failing.

Creativity is a beautiful gift, one which should be handled with great care. That’s what it’s about.

To all who supported my six month stint in the wellness world, thank you. For all who continue to encourage me to be a writer, thank you.

I’m lucky to have such an awesome community to keep me going. You are all necessary and lovely. Again, thank you.

The Urge to Dance

Once upon a time I called myself a dancer. I danced my whole life until the end of last year when quite suddenly…I stopped.

No more teaching, no more leotards, no more performances. Just like that.

Such a monumental transition in my life was very hard for me to swallow, and most of 2013 was spent figuring out who I was beyond the dancer. When you’ve been doing something for over twenty years, it has a way of becoming a part of you.

I wrote I Found Some Change, which some of you may remember, when it all happened.

Recently Mr. H was out of town and I had this crazy urge to dance.

It was dark, the cats were asleep, and uncharacteristically I felt lonely. So I threw on jeans and a tank top, some music, and filmed this in one shot.

It wasn’t about choreography or perfection, it was simply about moving.

Mr. H threw in some nifty video effects after he saw it. So even though we were apart when it started, we came together to create something in the end.

The video is silent, due to music rights mumbo jumbo that I didn’t want to mess with on YouTube. But I realized that the silence itself was beautiful, because when I move everything becomes still and quiet. The music, even the sound of my own breath.

This project taught me that entirely letting go of something isn’t always the right thing to do. The dancer is still inside and I’m OK with it being right there.

2nd Draft…BAM!

It all began in August, the dreaded second draft.

The first time you read the work you poured your heart and soul into can be a frightening thing. A damn frightening thing.

Is it shit? I mean, is it complete and total shit?

Well, it might be to other people but I dig it. And at the end of the day, amidst subjective opinions on all things artistic, if I dig it, then that’s really all that matters.

This second draft and I are war buddies.

Over the past four months we stuck it out together, on Sundays for a chunk of time and usually on Wednesday nights when I was ready to keel over from day job and Yoga teaching repercussions.

I worked over a couple of paragraphs, folded some laundry, then parked it back in my chair and continued. My dinner got cold on the table just so I could sneak a page in. Headphones blocked out everything from Sunday football to my guitarist wannabee apartment manager on the first floor (we live two floors above him, we often want to chop our ears off and be done with it), so I could manage an entire chapter.

Last weekend I trudged through the final pages and finished. Bam!

If it hadn’t been so arctic outside, I probably would’ve screamed out my window: “Second draft, you were my Everest. And, I conquered your ass!”

But, I refrained. And my neighbors shall continue loathing our noisy manager rather than yours truly, the dorky writer with too much enthusiasm.

I had to share the excitement with all of you guys though.

There’s still a long road ahead, including the next stage which I call “The Serial Killer Phase”. Nope, I don’t write about serial killers. However when it’s time to reference the serial killer notes sitting on my bedside table, that’s the phase I’m talking about.

Writers, you know the notes. Random thoughts and dialogue, groovy sentences from authors who know a thing or two, and of course, the crazed scribbling that happens in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning.

Obsession with a splash of insomnia. Hence, serial killer notes…

Lastly, there will be more editing, reading, editing, reading…until I can’t stand looking at it anymore. That’s where my in-law editors come in for moral support, right before I chuck the dissected, stitched, scarred draft promptly in the garbage.

Long story short, my vague release date for The Bra Game is set for late Spring 2014. So, yay for that!

Goat Repartee

Like anyone else, there are moments when social media chaps my ass.

The time sucking factor. The guerilla warfare book marketing tactics – zombie erotica…I think I’ll pass. But, it’s free on Amazon this weekend. I’ll still pass. And, the selfies. So many, many selfies.

For better or worse, social media is a communication tool.

Whether we love it or we hate it, it’s there for us to interact with people anywhere in the world, to express our thoughts, dreams, and opinions, to try to make it out there when you’re a one-woman indie author show like yours truly.

I admit it. At first I didn’t know how in the hell to use social media properly, especially Twitter which was a complete mystery. No, I wasn’t ever the hardcore zombie erotica book salesman that you wanted to strangle.

I always understood that social media was about reaching people from a personal standpoint, not by going apeshit and throwing poop at their faces while screaming “Look at me, damnit!”.

Instead, you have to go the baby chimpanzee route: make odd and adorable faces constantly, cling just enough to show your softer side, build a kick ass community to keep you warm and safe, and share the love for cyber hugs.

(Not sure what’s going on with the primates in this post…my sincerest apologies. I’ll get to goats soon, I promise.)

Anyways, I used to try to keep up with everybody and everything and I almost lost my damn mind. That’s not how you use social media, unless you want to end up in the loony bin trying to rub off that hashtag forehead tattoo you thought was a bitchin’ idea.

Over the past six months, I’ve scaled back a lot of my social media playtime. I’m a busy gal, so I tend to concentrate on deeper connections with some and let the rest just keep on streamin’.

Yet, last week something truly magnificent happened, a legendary dialogue, one for the social media history books. While feces flew all around, the baby chimps were making cute conversation and playing social media the right way.

I simply had to share…

The Players: Sheila, Carrie, Letizia, and Me

The Scene: Twitter

The Muse: Goat

The End

Clearly if you’re not following us gals on Twitter, you’re missing out. Feel free to chime in about goats or other subjects if goats aren’t your thing.

Sheila – @SheilaHurst11

Carrie – @carrie_rubin

Letizia – @readinterrupt

Me – @brittskrabanek

I am still learning

You know something? I heard a lot of silly notions about becoming a grown-up.

Like somewhere along the way I was going to stoop down, pick up a bag of guaranteed answers, open it, and breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

After high school, I would go to a prestigious college and obtain a dazzling degree in four years flat. During that time, I would work some ridiculous jobs, but take solace knowing they were only temporary. Once I had that degree, respectful employment would be mine for the taking.

Once I finished college, I would have a flourishing career, one that would pay off my student loans and offer a lifetime of stability, gratefully insured and saving for mecca…retirement. My job would never feel like work. I would wake up every day, drink my coffee and dress the part, and go to the office, smiling because I was content with just making money.

With all of this money, I would buy an over-sized house and a luxury car, both more than I could afford because they would symbolize success, that I had arrived. Besides, I would need these accessories to match my life’s outfit. Being a good adult means looking like you have your shit together, even when you don’t.

Yeah, things didn’t pan out like that for me.

I had all the grades to go to any college I wanted, but there was a reluctance inside of me. If my rebellious side would have put her big girl pants on, I’m pretty sure I would have passed on the higher education thing altogether. Instead, I got in line and chose a random college, transferred to some others, studied abroad, and six years later I had that sparkling piece of paper.

I held it in my hands, unconvinced by its magical powers. So, I tucked it inside of my dresser drawer, underneath some neatly folded sweaters, and continued working my high-end retail sales job for several more years. I made a ton of money, lived in a loft with a downtown view, and I screwed off.

I delayed the adult.

Then, I moved to a smaller city to become an artist, a dance teacher and a writer. I downsized everything – ditched my car and holed up in a tiny apartment decorated with used furniture – and strangely, I felt much better, like myself. I spent a lot of time working in sweatpants, feeling rewarded, but too poor to keep it up.

Now I have a steady paycheck. I juggle my creative desires on the side.

I have insurance, but no cushy retirement fund to be excited about. Because I don’t want retirement to be it – my one dream. I want to live now, experience everything I can, savor the journey because that is truly the dream.

Isn’t destination just a fancier word for the end?

At my Yoga teacher graduation last June, I didn’t hear promises of grandeur. Instead of wearing my honors sash, cap, and gown, I was barefoot with prayer beads hanging around my neck. Instead of a shiny piece of paper, I held a certificate filled with seeds for planting new growth and a slender box of incense for reflection.

There is only one answer I have found in this past year, on the very last page of “Light on Life” by Iyengar, written exquisitely by one of the world’s masters of Yoga, who still practices three hours each day at the age of 90.

This man of infinite wisdom nearing the end of his life honors a gentle humility by quoting Spanish artist Goya. At 78 years old, deaf and debilitated, Goya said “Aún aprendo”.

I am still learning.