entertainment – Britt Skrabanek

The End of A Physical Perspective

Many times I considered giving up on blogging. I always joke around with people that it’s a full-time job, because it kind of is.

If you’re not writing a post, sharing on social, responding to readers, and commenting on other blogs (tired yet?), you’re thinking about your next post and possibly the post after that.

But whenever I think about the “work” that goes into blogging, I think about the “awesome” instead. It’s actually quite easy to do, because there has been a lot of awesome.

Almost three years ago I started this blog, and I am not lying when I say that I had absolutely no freaking clue what I was doing. I knew that it was a big commitment, which is why I shied away from it before and why I refused to take on the responsibility at my job at the time.

I just knew. It’s a lot.

Back then I started a blog because I needed a platform as a writer, especially an Indie Author who nobody would have a chance of hearing about otherwise. I heard phrases like “build a tribe”.

Build a tribe? How in the hell am I supposed to do that? Is anyone ever going to read this crazy shit?

At first, nobody really did. Except for family and friends…thanks, guys. xoxoxo

But then, I started meeting people in the blogging community—people I had never met and had no association with my family or friends who might have forced them to visit. There were some likes, even a few comments, and eventually they shared.

I first came up with the title for this blog, A Physical Perspective, when I felt like I needed some sort of title.

It was thought of on a whim. I remember standing over my dining room table on an evening after work or something and writing it on a notepad.

It’s open to interpretation, which I won’t go into here, but I started thinking recently…who cares?

And, I listened to my people.

It’s very rare when any of you guys even use that name, because you say “Britt’s blog”. So, going into another wild year with this blog, I have ditched my old name.

Many of you were here the other day for Zen’s Life Enthusiast post, and you commented on the new look. Thank you all for your sweet compliments.

I think the space better represents who I am and what I have to say. There’s no need for a fancy blog title that leaves you scratching your head about the meaning.

This is Britt’s blog.

I am a flawed human just like everybody else, and all I do is write nonsense that sometimes makes sense. I am a Life Enthusiast, because I am flawed…and that means I’m alive.

Thank you all for being here. I’m excited to share many more of life’s ridiculously gorgeous moments with you…my tribe.

Cat Yogi

One night last week I decided to treat myself to a Yin class. Usually I go for Vinyasa, because I adore the active flowing movement of this practice.

But, I’m also a firm Yin believer—especially with go, go, go people like yours truly.

I’ve been incorporating Yin into my practice for the past three years. I stumbled upon it accidentally, since I had a teacher that specialized in that particular style.

I remember the first class I took was so different from anything else I tried. In fact, I was confused.

Because though it looked like we weren’t doing much, it was one of the most difficult classes I have ever taken.

Mentally and physically Yin is ridiculously challenging. The poses are usually held for five minutes and rather than fighting the emotion and the body, you have to surrender.

For you Type A people like me, surrendering is just something we don’t do. Which is why I love Yin. It is a true test of what I am capable of, when I explore this unfamiliar stillness.

Well, there’s someone else that loves Yin in this house. Someone that looks a lot like a stuffed animal.

For any Yogi with pets out there, you understand the struggle with having a regular home practice.

When you’re on the floor, you’re fair game. You will be licked, mounted, and humiliated.

Aphrodite the cat usually gets kicked off my Yoga mat once sun salutations are in full swing, but she always comes back at the end of class and we do Savasana together. (It’s her favorite pose.)

So, when I took an advanced Yin class the other night—meaning seven minute holds instead of five—she took the entire class with me.

No, she wasn’t stretching next to me. She was on me.

I realize that grabbing an iPhone to snap pix and take videos during any Yoga class is taboo. But I needed to show proof to the world that humans aren’t the only ones that like Yoga.

Cats like it too.

I know, I know. We’re the cutest.

To tell you the truth, even though I’m usually irritated with my cat for “disrupting” my Yoga class, the other night I was fascinated with our time together.

She moved with me, from pose to pose, because I let her be. It’s an interesting concept—to let things be and see what happens.

(Some of you have seen this video already on social, but in case you missed it, here we are in Pigeon Pose together. Being awesome.)

My Thoughts in the Wind

I had a romantic notion about Twitter the other day.

Come on now, hear me out.

I was watching one of my favorite movies that I hadn’t seen in ages. Stealing Beauty.

This is my coming-of-age movie I’ve seen about a billion times. Bernardo Bertolucci directed it, and though it’s in English, it has all of the things that I love about foreign films.

Nakedness is celebrated, not shunned or exploited. It’s slow-paced, not action-packed. It’s peaceful, not violent. It’s artistic, not shallow.

The soundtrack is awesome—Billie Holiday, Portishead, Stevie Wonder, Nina Simone, and Hole somehow work seamlessly together.

The main character, a young American woman named Lucy, is on a journey of self-discovery. Liv Tyler plays the part masterfully, with depth and a quiet beauty.

She travels to Italy in the summer to stay in the countryside with some family friends, to wander around and have her portrait painted.

All of it’s gorgeous—the scenery, the people, the food and wine. There’s also some regular napping and weed smoking.

Sounds rough, I know.

Her deceased mother was a poet and Lucy is a writer as well. Being that I idolized this character a bit, I wonder if it influenced me to become a writer in some way. Perhaps.

She keeps a journal with her at all times, scribbling her youthful angst and woes. I even copied her journal, with an envelope glued inside of the cover to harbor pictures.

But Lucy doesn’t keep what she writes.

She tears the piece of paper out of her journal and either burns her thoughts over a candle or releases them into the wind.

It’s a lot of what I do now in this online writing world I live in, especially on Twitter. I write my thoughts and set them free, often forgetting they ever happened.

Sometimes my thoughts are caught by another and read. I am reminded of that thought, whether it was meaningful or not.

But I smile, because someone connected with a little piece of me.

Then, they let my thoughts go in the wind. They travel on to others, caught and read once more, or they disappear, never to be seen again.

I don’t know why I thought this, but I’m kind of in love with the idea.

Thursday Night

Something interesting happens on Thursday nights. I’m usually wiped out from the workweek, ready for the weekend.

But the self-doubt never fails. I ask myself…how in the hell will I be me again?

You know what I’m talking about, right?

That little bit of sacred time when you get to do whatever you want. Whatever that may be.

No deadlines. No meetings. No schedules.

And, cue panic.

The panic to live. To try to get everything done in a couple of days—the laundry, the grocery store, the exercise, the relaxing, the creativity, the lovemaking.

Thursday nights always happen the same way for me. I’m tired and moody, but after a couple of necessary beers and some laughs, I unlock myself. I remember what it’s like to be me again.

We never talk about Thursdays. We talk about Monday blues and Friday fun.

I don’t know why, but on Thursdays, a couple of hours before I go to bed, I become me again. Thinking about things that mean something, looking at my husband like I haven’t seen him in ages, realizing how damn beautiful he is.

A couple of months ago I started a new job and I remember thinking on a Thursday night—how am I going to keep up with it all? My marriage, my cats, my apartment, my family, my friends, my Yoga, my running, my blog, my novels, my “me”.

That night I wrote the opening scene to my next novel. Crazy as that sounds, after three books and no fame, I’m going to write another.

Because I have to. Because I can’t help myself. Because this is me.

This novel will be a departure from the historical fiction novelista many of you know me to be.

I’ve decided to go forward, just a little, to a time just beyond now when we haven’t learned from the mistakes of history, when we’ve become a world where the people in charge (the government, the dictator, the tyrant) forbid love.

Because love is the one thing THEY can’t control. And the funny thing is, if we all just loved more…the world could be so much better, perhaps peaceful even.

Hell, wouldn’t that be something?

The working title for my next novel is Virasana. It’s a Sanskrit word for one of the few Yoga poses I just cannot do, but an amazing one nonetheless.

For those who practice Yoga, you’ll smile at my choice. The English translation is pretty awesome.

The main character is a reluctant heroine with the power to command nature at her will—something she doesn’t understand, something she learns is her greatest power.

In the opening scene the main character is on the edge of a cliff, alone in a familiar place where her and her man used to be together, side by side. Everything is fragrant and green, the newness that comes with spring.

I can’t make any promises on a release timeframe, because I have very little time to write.

I haven’t touched this since I first wrote it that Thursday night, but I’ve looked at it many times and knew that it was right. I don’t have time to continue with it right now, but I hope to soon.

For some reason this particular Thursday night I decided it was time to share it.

This is what I have so far…

I got so used to you sitting beside me.
It was all a routine…like breakfast.
But you were better than breakfast. You nourished me like nothing else.
For a good while there—um—I guess I felt full. Maybe even stuffed.
Can you believe that?
Me.
Stuffed on love, on you.
Well, not anymore.
I’m always hungry for you.
Actually, I’m starving.
But, hey. You’re not here anymore, are you?
Come on.
Pretty please.
Say something, release me.
Really?
You’ve got nothing?
Alright, fine. So, where was I?
Oh, yeah. You’re not here anymore, are you?
No.
The grass and the dandelions have reclaimed your space. My tears have watered them, helped them grow. My lips have made them tender and alive.
How in the hell did I do that? I’m so dead.
No.
That would be too easy.
Under the earth where nobody can see me.
I’m dried out, alone.
Above the earth where everyone can see me. Everyone.
Yes.
That’s more like it. That’s hard.
Real hard.
Hey—um—I have a question for you.
Yeah, you. You’re the only one I know that can answer it, so listen up.
What’s this excuse for a world without you by my side?
Come on.
Pretty please.
Say something, release me.

Across the Sound

There’s something so awesomely crazy about driving, transporting your car on water, then driving away again. I mean, how often do you get to do that?

Okay, some get to do it often. The people of Seattle sure do.

For the rest of us, it’s kind of a miraculous feeling.

It was a few minutes before 8am last Saturday when me, Mr. H, and our car, Uschi, loaded onto the Edmonds-Kingston ferry in Washington.

We stepped out of the car to stretch our legs and watched the serene world go by through the big windows inside.

I love the inside of ferries, don’t you? They’re always so retro and battered, a great backdrop for some impromptu modeling shots.

I had been on a ferry once, maybe twice before, when I was a pup back in Southern California. But nothing could prepare me for taking a ferry across the Puget Sound on a January morning.

We scurried onto the freezing deck like a couple of kids.

It reminded me of running into the living room on Christmas morning, sneaking around at the crack of dawn so I could check out the pretty presents under the tree before Dad woke up.

Every possible shade of blue, purple, and grey surrounded me. Like I had opened a box of crayons with only a few options.

But I wasn’t disappointed. It was just too beautiful.

Where does the water end? Where does the sky begin? I wanted to cry—my eyes barely knew how to handle visions like this…

Others on the boat were just as hypnotized as we were. Bundled up couples strolled the deck, physically attached to each other in some way, their bodies begging for warmth.

A man who has probably taken this route every single day for years couldn’t resist the temptation to step outside in the biting cold.

To marvel at all of it—the majesty, the simplicity.

Even with all of this power, somehow the Sound was soundless. Here was a welcoming haven from the boisterous world we knew all too well.

The water danced, only because it wanted to. The wind whispered poetry. The birds played it cool.

It was a foreign land, an exquisite secret. Nobody gets to stay here…you can only pass through.

We felt honored to be here, to breathe in this unexpected bliss as we glided across the Sound.