Kryssieness's avatar

Kryssieness

Chaotic Random
54 Watchers190 Deviations
11.6K
Pageviews

I Sing, Too...

1 min read
I recently learned I have seronegative celiac disease. So, after poisoning myself for three years, I went back to a grain & legume-free diet. My skin cleared up, my pain cleared up (mostly), my weight started to go down....and, my voice cleared up...and I'm finding I can breathe better to have longer phrases!  I present, for your listening pleasure, "Dangerous Game" from Jekyll & Hyde.

youtu.be/pSwS3YG7haw
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In

My One Thing

2 min read
On Facebook this week, I expressed an existential crisis of, "Am I still an artist on the days my brain says I'm not an artist?" I have these days, as part of my depression, for my own life. Am I truly important to anyone or anything? Would people not be better without me? For those "Life" days, I have The Doctor: "In 900 years of time and space, I've never met anyone who was unimportant before."

Until today, I didn't have something for my "Art" days. Today, I went to meet Jack Skellington & Sally at Disneyland. I showed them my pictures I'd drawn. Jack, having trouble seeing his, asked if he was on fire. Sally quickly stated, "No, you're coming through...a..doorOHMYGOSH!!! Is this what I think it is?! If this is what I think it is, I'm going to be really happy!!" I told her it was The Shining crossover and she squeed with delight. Then I showed them the Star Wars crossover and they loved it. Jack stared at the picture of him, reluctant to sign it, and he gave me my one: "This is fantastic. You are amazing. Don't ever stop. Unless your hands feel like they're going to fall off. Then you can stop."

Jack & Sally loved my art. Jack & Sally called me an artist. Jack & Sally gave me my one moment to cling to in my dark times of self doubt.
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In

It was a most random tryst.  A Victorian-esque mystery trapped in the midst of a booming metropolis.  The earth yearned to hold on to memories of simpler times, to ever flitting glimpses of lives long since past.  Enticing, entrancing, those are the only words in existence to describe drawing—the need the place exuded.  How many have walked these paths?  How many have seen?  No, not merely seen with the eyes within their skulls; eyes which only see that which is rational and explainable.  How many have seen the vibrancy of life springing up anew?  How many have seen the trembling of the flowers as their own fingers reach toward the delicate places?  How many have seen?

                I am merely a girl.  I hold no place of glory within this world.  My presence is not one of great accolade, but it is one of great insight.  Perhaps my insight is not the deep, philosophical words of my predecessors such as Ghandi, Confusious, or Aristotle; no, my insight rather mirrors that of the great philosophers Van Gogh, Poe, and Beethoven, who with single strokes of pen on paper, created more insight into the thoughts and feelings of mankind than Aristotle ever could have done. 

                But, I have digressed from the tale of the Trees. 

                I knew this place had something special.  I walked, as if drawn, to the chamber of intrigue.  Inside this chamber, there lived such life that only a blind fool could miss.  Sadly, the world is full of many such.  As I approached the greenery of many varieties of ferns, I could feel.  I could see, taste, touch, hear, smell the echoes of the past and the whispers of the future.  As I walked the outer circle, my thoughts turned towards the fictional character of Dorian Grey, asking Vanessa Ives if she wished to see something beautiful—only, I was Vanessa and he was asking me.  I heard his voice glide like silk into my ears.  “Tell me what you see,” I heard him say; before I could respond, I felt his hand cup over my eyes and say, “No…tell me what you see.”  It was at that moment that my world burst open with color, light, and life.  I could smell the peat; I could hear the soft footsteps of the beautiful women of the past, walking where I was walking, murmuring near my ears about the latest gossip.  I could taste the air and the myriad of flavors that seemed to writhe in, around, and through the very molecules themselves.  I began to see the trembling of life in each leaf and flower.  As I walked, I could hear the silken voice of my thoughts say, “Touch them…”  So, without hesitation, I reached out with my fingers, leaves trembling as they approached.  I felt the suppleness of the leaves, the tenderness of new buds.  Even those which purposely defend themselves against human interaction seemed to lower their defenses as I reached out.  “They want you to touch them,” said the voice, “…and they wish to touch you.”  So, I allowed them to do so. I took a second pass through the international forest of fern and foliage and I allowed them to touch me.  I closed my eyes and let the leaves fall where they may—not a single one desired to cause me harm.  Soft and gentle fingers caressed my face and hair; buds called out for me to reach to them.  The voice returned to my thoughts, “They love you because you understand.  You see them.  You don’t just look at them.  They miss the touch; they miss the excitement of being experienced.”

                What more could I say or do?  I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted, “Tell the story.  Tell the story as a gold thread weaved through a tapestry creates a portrait of grandeur and extravagance.  Use the words you know; the words you love.  I know you, Miss Mackey.  I know you well.  Within you is a heart that beats with life, with excitement, with passion.  It is for you to show the world how to see—teach them.  Begin with this moment, with this interaction.  Tell them of me, of you, of the trees, and teach them to see the beauty.  Teach them to live with passion.”

                So, my friends.  I end this brief glimpse into my world with the simple plea that you go out and see the forest within the flowers; see the ocean in each droplet of water; see the stars in the eyes of every person you meet.  Life is meant to be experienced not merely lived. 

Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Sometime in either 9th or 10th grades, my church's youth group went on a cross-country skiing outing. I wouldn't mention this except this was the trip where I dislocated my left shoulder, but was told I was faking it and would have to ski a mile back to the lodge. We had a guide with us, but the guide did nothing because the youth leader made that statement. Serious injuries in my life were and are met with disbelief from others.

It was also around this time that I began to realize something was really different about me. I was 14 years old and I could see spirits. To this point, I'd had numerous interactions with the spirit world and thought it was completely normal--but this was the year I began to realize it was not. During my 9th grade year, our church in which I had grown up, closed its doors. There were a ton of reasons, none of which are important to my story. I didn't know what they were and I didn't really care. Of the people remaining at the church, I liked about 3. And none of them were my age. I also began to notice that I was sad a lot. I didn't know why--I had nothing to be sad about. I asked my mom about depression, but she insisted I was fine. I let it go.

In tenth grade, we got a new English teacher who also revamped our lackluster drama program. He was young, handsome, and extremely talented with plays and acting. I was excited to actually learn the art of theatre. He allowed me to build sets, design sets, paint sets, provide costuming ideas, even allow me to direct a couple scenes. He saw the passion I had and helped me capitalize on that passion--to mold and shape that passion. I honestly do not remember the pieces I performed in high school--except for the one from my senior year, but I'll get to that in a moment. Mr. Miller taught me word coloring, stage presence, appropriate use of gestures. He took the raw talent I had and honed it into something great. Well, something I thought was great. I was able to control my audiences--mesmerize them, make them laugh, cry, cry out in fear--it was such a rush because I knew they were with me in the moment and they were doing exactly what I wanted of them: Forgetting their own lives for a little while and leaping into a world of imagination. It was the one thing that made me special.

It was also the one thing that further distanced me from my friends.

I spent late nights building sets and painting them. Rehearsals would find me sleeping in the green room because, on top of my homework, I was tirelessly working on sets and props; "curb-shopping" for set pieces, etc. It was great prep for college. Acting was something I remember wanting to do. My hero was Johnny Depp. Why? Because he could play anything and be anyone and it was as natural for him as it was for me to breathe. Just to be in the same room as he was for five minutes... Val Kilmer was another actor I discovered with a deep fire and resolve, and soon, I learned who Marlon Brando was. These three men inspired me to acting. I could spend chapters on my acting heroes because, there are many more. My current list include Depp and Kilmer, but have added Robert Downey, Jr., Anne Hathaway, and Eddie Izzard. 

My "friends" grew further from me and I could hear them talking behind my back.  All I wanted was for someone to tell me I was awesome.  They said it to everyone else--but, I was never awesome.  I was the freak.  I was weird.  I was also the Befriender of the Friendless.  The Voice for those who had none or couldn't find their own.  Somethings haven't changed.  Still, kids were very cruel to me in high school--especially during rehearsals when I was trying to snag some rest where I could.  

Classes in 11th & 12th grades consisted of subjects like Literature and Creative Writing, Drama, Yearbook, Algebra II & Business Math, Chemistry, State History & US History.  Mr. McCallum was our history teacher in 11th grade and he revolutionized teaching for me.  At the fundamentalist high school I went to, he brought in Bob Durgan, an extremely liberal AM talk show host.  I will never forget Bob going on about how the government hid FDR's disability from the American people and how they wanted to erect a statue that put him in a wheelchair (which was against FDR's wishes)...then asked us what we thought.  Everyone else agreed this was appropriate to show our support of disabled people, etc.  I disagreed.  Again, an adult in my life accused me of not thinking.  Bob said, "Oh, you're just being difficult."  

"No, I'm not."

"Really?  How could you possibly have a good reason?"

"Simple.  We as Americans may embrace diversity.  The rest of the world does not.  There are many countries that look to the United States for support and inspiration and they expect that leader to look the role.  Do you, Mr. Durgan, look at a disabled person in a wheelchair and think, 'Hmm.  I bet that person is keenly intuitive and can rule the nation in an appropriate fashion'?  I guarantee you do not since you did not believe that I, a 16 year old girl, could have a logical, well-thought out, foreign-policy based opinion on whether or not we should follow FDR's wishes and continue to depict him without the wheelchair."  I was never known for tact or diplomacy.  After a stunned silence, Bob asked the rest of my classmates if they wanted to change their opinions and then spent the rest of the time discussing foreign policy.  I was always quick to point out hypocrisies or point out that the world was bigger than the boarders of the US.  I never understood why people would label each other as the geek, the nerd, the jock, whatever.  We were all people and we all wanted the same thing: Acceptance.

By my senior year, there were five of us in my graduating class: Brad Jury, Tyrone Golden, Jill Keys, Lisa McGraw, and me. Imagine my shock and horror to find that I was graduating as the Valedictorian. Up until my senior year, I was the "dumb, fat, and ugly" girl in the class. Everyone was better at me in everything (except drama). How was I suddenly the one with the highest GPA?! I didn't know what to do. I knew I had to write a speech that would encourage my classmates to greatness. I don't remember the words I said, but I remember the audience at graduation was impressed and inspired.  I remember feeling like I was dying inside...like I was simply putting on a show for everyone around me.  My mom had told me when I was 16 that I was "a nonconformist by nature" and to never change.  She, later, regretted those words, but was proud of me for sticking to who I was.

It was during this time that I still noticed the issues I was having with being sad and I decided to talk to someone at my church.  The response was, "You're a Christian!  It's a sin for Christians to be depressed because that means they're not relying on God for everything!  So, let go of whatever's bothering you and just give it to God!  You'll be happier."  Except, I didn't know what was bothering me, exactly.  And no matter how many times I let go of the past hurts and forgave my friends for treating me like trash, I still felt exactly the same.  Maybe God had forgotten me... After all, I wasn't all that special--just another lousy kid in the world.  I was dumb, fat, and ugly and was destined to be the failure everyone was sure I'd be.  I chose to go to a fundamental Bible college (a decision I regretted almost instantly) and in August of 1995, I headed to Wisconsin.

Season 1 has no real cliff hanger.  But, my high school days were behind me--or so I thought...
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
The Awkward Stage

By sixth grade, everyone knew I was an actress.  I loved doing dramatic readings and being on stage.  But not everyone realized I was acting every day of my life.  I was acting happy.  I was not.  It's never easy to be who you are when everyone else says it's wrong.  People hate what they fear; and people fear unique.  Some, however, look at the person who is unique and desperately wish they could be like them.  This is, apparently, the theme of my life and why I am actually writing a memoir.  Perhaps some of the struggles I went through in my life will resonate with someone reading these words and encourage and inspire them to keep going.  No matter how dark the tunnel, no matter how deep the well, there is always someone who understands--religious beliefs aside. As I was looking at a link someone sent me, I saw an image with the following words: 

"The moment you realize your bones are made of the same dust as the planets, your lungs are breathing the same air as the migrating butterflies, and your blood is pumping because of the love and care of thousands: Is the moment you realize you are not as broken as you think you are.  You are full of the world."

I was in a loving, Christian home.  On the outside looking in, I had nothing for which to be depressed or upset.  And yet, I knew something wasn't right.  I threw myself into my books and my music.  I was taking piano lessons because I wanted to be like my sister.  I wasn't terrible, but I wasn't great, either.  It was natural aptitude because I didn't like to practice.  Practicing scales and fingering were boring.  I didn't like boring.  School was getting boring, too.  I wasn't learning anything new, really.  Sure, a few things here and there, but, nothing exciting.  I would get super-focused on reading along during class and somehow, that got me into trouble (I was told to pay attention a few times).  I wasn't a troublemaker (I hear my friends laughing, now.  But, it's true! I wasn't a troublemaker...read on, I assure you, you will understand).  I wasn't a troublemaker because troublemakers weren't well-liked by adults.  Adults were my friends--my only friends.  I didn't want to fit in with my peers.  My peers, by this time, had shown me that I was nothing to them--that I'd never be like them.  I just wanted someone to accept me.  So, no, no troublemaking.

My 6th grade teacher was from Boston, MA and had the accent to prove it.  Mr. Clarke was the first teacher I ever had who came to me to find out why I isolated myself.  Even Steven played with the other kids from time to time.  I didn't.  If Steven was playing something else or reading or whatever during recess, I was by myself on the swings or sitting alone, daydreaming.  When I told him the other kids didn't like me, he asked me why I thought that was.  I don't think he was prepared for a pre-teen to say, "Because I'm smarter than everyone else and they're jealous."  He blinked, then grinned and asked what I thought about that.  I told him in no uncertain terms I thought it was stupid...that I wasn't smarter than everyone else.  I was just me and I had the benefit of growing up with grown ups.  I wasn't better than anyone!  Yes, I was amazingly self-aware at 12.  I don't remember the entire conversation, but I do remember Mr. Clarke telling me that I was a very special person and never to change.  He conferenced with my parents; they considered holding me back.  Mr. Clarke, however, told them it would be a very bad idea.  I was advanced, intellectually, and needed to be challenged.  My parents argued that I wasn't emotionally mature enough.  Mr. Clarke told them he didn't care.  He asked them if they wanted me to be average or successful.  My parents chose successful.

My 6th grade year came to a close and I found the Mr. Clarke would be returning to Boston.  I was sad.  He was my friend.  He was the first teacher to fight for me, instead of calling me a troublemaker.  I was a good kid, I just didn't think bullying was appropriate.  Go figure.  Want to know a secret?  It's not and I still feel very strongly about that.  Any victim of bullying needs to know there is someone to whom they can speak and not receive answers such as, "Let roll off your back," or "make the joke before they do!"  Neither of these are appropriate.  If there isn't a hotline for dealing with bullies, maybe I'll create one.  1-800-HATE-NO1, maybe.  We'll see.  It was Mr. Clarke who quelled much of the incessant harassment I endured.

I began 7th grade with excitement and expectations of new revelations.  I found that, yet again, it was a review of all my previous work.  No one else had been reviewing; they were all at grade level.  I was above grade level.  Even my standardized tests showed that.  I was above grade level in every single subject--even math!  Again, it was a rough year.  Mrs. Clark (no relation) was my long-anticipated science teacher.  My brother had her for English and Science during his senior year and I had heard nothing but wonderful tales.  Within three months of the start of the school year, Mrs. Clark fell ill.  When I say she fell ill, I mean, she was out for the rest of the year.  When she was in her 20s, she had been on a water skiing adventure.  That adventure went very wrong when she ended up airborne and landed on a piece of wood that was sticking up out of the water.  Did I say "landed on"?  I meant "landed on a piece of wood, straddled."  The limb, branch, whatever it was, went straight up through her body and stopped just shy of her heart, but pierced the lining.  She was extremely susceptible to any and every illness out there--and yet, she chose to teach.  She could never have children; her students were her kids.  Her husband was younger than her and the two of them were an amazing pair.  It was almost like watching Dame Maggie Smith interact with Patrick Stewart.  Both were outrightly proper, but together?  It was like Pinky & the Brain.  I loved them very much and think the world of them.  Which is also why when she was ill, I was disappointed to have a new science teacher, Mr. Burbank.

Mr. Burbank, however, ended up being another of those teachers who believed in me.  He came to us from Alaska, and, two years later, that is where he returned.  He taught our survey science class in 7th grade and our geological science class in 8th grade.  He recognized that I was interested in science and knew I could pull better grades than I was.  When he asked me what was wrong, I said, "I'm bored.  I've done all this before."  

He stared at me a moment and responded with his normal dryness, "Hm.  Interesting.  Let me think on that for a minute."  He went to his desk and rummaged through papers and such, then came back over to me and gave me some worksheets.  "Try these.  If you can get them all right, I'll give you a candy bar."  So I did.  In fact, I did them right there.  Achievement Unlocked: Candy Bar Obtained.  "Why don't you do that in class?  Was it the candy bar?"

"Nah, it's just silly to keep redoing everything."

"Well, how about I have you help me explain things?"  My eyes lit up.  No one had ever asked me to do that before.  "If you do, you'll have to do your homework and read ahead to know what we'll be talking about tomorrow.  Can you do that?"

"Sure!"  I was special!  I got to help a teacher with something I loved!  I hadn't thought about the fact the other kids would resent me.  I also hadn't realized that Mr. Burbank successfully talked me into doing more homework.  Ah, the power of emotional appeal.  After the first quarter of my 7th grade year, my grades soared.  If I could help one teacher, maybe I could help them all!  No such luck...and there were some teachers I thought were really wrong about things.  Working with Mr. Burbank, though, taught me what was and wasn't appropriate to say--like when I called him a nerd the day he came to class with new glasses.  Everyone else had called me that--I hadn't actually realized those words could hurt anyone who wasn't me.  Mr. Burbank taught me a lot in the two years he stayed with us.

Middle school was uneventful, really.  I was allowed to participate in the speech and singing competitions, so I did.  My first performance was the entire 7.5 minute reading of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven," from memory, with proper inflection.  But, I was over time, so I was eliminated from the competition with the condolence: "7th graders never go to States, anyway."  That was fine, I knew what I wanted to do and I was going to pursue it relentlessly.  I loved speech competitions.  It was, after all, my second love (to science).  Performance, in general, was my second love.  In 8th grade, I entered the dramatic reading and the vocal solo competition.  I did well enough on the solo, but not well enough to progress to States.  I was going to states for my rendition of "The Little Match Girl."  Again, it was from memory with inflections and I'd made the school cry.  I received honorable mention at States. 

I was 13 that year.  My 8th grade year, I mean.  At least, I was 13 by the time States came around.  I'd had a fight with my parents regarding my practicing for piano lessons and how I just didn't seem interested.  But, I loved music and I didn't want to give it up.  After selecting the worst possible song for competition ("His Eye is On the Sparrow"), my parents stopped and thought about everything.  Perhaps piano just wasn't my instrument and I'd progressed as far as I was going to...maybe, voice was more my thing.  My sister was moving on to a new voice teacher named Roger Lentz.  His wife at the time, Gwendolyn, was an opera singer with the New York Met.  Both graduated from Eastman School of Music and Roger had been on faculty at Rochester School of Music.  Roger, was and is still...a genius.  My sister auditioned for Roger and he accepted her as a student without question.  It was then my turn to audition for he and Gwen.  I sang some song I no longer remember and Roger stopped playing as Gwen turned to their sheet music library saying, "Too low..."  She selected a song and said, "Sing this..."  I didn't know the song.  Roger and Gwen both said, "I believe you can do it..."  No one had said that to me regarding music, before... So, I did...and Gwen looked at Roger and he to her...and they smiled.  "I can't wait to train you!" Gwen said.

Within 3 months, I was singing Italian arias.  Gwen and I had some personality conflicts and she eventually stopped training me.  Roger took me on, personally, because Roger still believed in me.  To this day, I'm convinced he continues to believe in me, even though I haven't trained with him for over 10 years.  I miss his weekly instruction and performing in his recitals.  It was during my time with Roger and Gwen that I found something else I could do well: Sing.  But, it was that very thing that I also learned would never be satisfactory for anyone else.  Judges would always say things like, "Your outfit isn't appropriate," or "Your lipstick is too dark" or even criticize musical choices I made to create a piece as unique as myself.  Nothing technically wrong, just not what they wanted to hear.  Even Roger would be surprised by the judges' comments.  It was a part of me, however, and the critiques were about the same as the kids telling me I was dumb, fat, and ugly.  Still, I wanted to be loved and accepted.  I knew I could sing and I wanted to be better.  I'd always dreamed of being a performer and this was the best way to do it.

In 9th grade, I entered the speech and vocal competitions again.  That year, I went to States on both levels.  At this stage of my life, I forget what pieces I performed--it was my last year at the junior high level of competition.  I just know that whatever I did, I received an "Excellent" award for speech (2nd place) and an honorable mention for singing.  I grew a bit more confident in myself because students were coming to me for help with their speeches.  For once, people respected something about me and weren't afraid to tell me.

The next year, there was another new teacher.  That teacher changed the course of my life. Thus, this chapter closes and a new one begins...
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Featured

I Sing, Too... by Kryssieness, journal

My One Thing by Kryssieness, journal

For the Love of Life by Kryssieness, journal

Memoirs of a Geekster, S1E3 by Kryssieness, journal

Memoirs of a Geekster, S1E2 by Kryssieness, journal