tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53224016953112554342024-02-19T03:34:46.443-08:00A•MusedA Lifestyle blog based in Sonoma County, in the heart of Wine Country. Amber is an outspoken voice for local activism, local wine tourism, and more. Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comBlogger1034125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-75487469011421650712023-05-25T11:11:00.004-07:002023-05-30T09:42:42.633-07:00Worthy Of<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIhgvtwJIygoHOmiR9DpXQ152gTpP3Ff0Oux453WJ9nRF2cvKSYlcGK2knrx_cAd43GQJiMYJhQ_KaKT2S0svnsIUl09XtzDSOJcUgrRNAD2SKP4F4jwLY7vgwrUabtkq1Etzl_1lKJz9Sw865lP8r7pahmigSr32p7kfUxr4uSWx1Yts7LC3OLLh/s4032/412E56FC-EC32-4B96-A632-1F61EA4E4EB1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIhgvtwJIygoHOmiR9DpXQ152gTpP3Ff0Oux453WJ9nRF2cvKSYlcGK2knrx_cAd43GQJiMYJhQ_KaKT2S0svnsIUl09XtzDSOJcUgrRNAD2SKP4F4jwLY7vgwrUabtkq1Etzl_1lKJz9Sw865lP8r7pahmigSr32p7kfUxr4uSWx1Yts7LC3OLLh/s16000/412E56FC-EC32-4B96-A632-1F61EA4E4EB1.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When all this first began in May 2021, I would tell myself “someday I will write a best selling memoir and in it I will name the names of people who betrayed me. The friends and the so-called friends and coworkers and brands who left me without so much as a question or text. The family members who convinced themselves that they were “helping” by pretending like nothing was wrong. The ones who watched me burn from a safe distance, behind screens as if we were strangers. In my chapters I would have said “look how wrong you were about me. Look how wrong you were to misjudge me and leave me.” </div><p>But now, I think I will leave those people forgotten and unnamed. I will instead dedicate pages to the ones who didn’t abandon me. The ones who remained steadfast and dependable. The ones who cheered me on and checked in on me, never seeking to fix, but support me in ways I didn’t even realize I needed. The ones who never once questioned me, and who decided to love me no matter what was said, or done. The ones who understood that my love languages became safety and trust, who let me go silent without taking offense. The ones who watched me shrink and become so small that I forgot how to speak, and cheered me on, as I learned how to all over again. </p><p>I will dedicate my book to them, and to myself too - because it was the both of use who learned together how to bring me forward again. They love me. And I love me too. </p><p>I think that alone is worthy of a memoir.</p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-54283265508778844552023-04-03T17:18:00.004-07:002023-04-06T08:29:48.790-07:00Icarus and the Canary <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsjz702VnWBVF8OxplxNdeSgEesRhMyfGEc9u-PT_0KnA6VYSz0Mv9PMgxe8ROwmvjFUxPMn63Ui9f8rtL23psDm81dVPk2fBkPdXzks_JjWAbK3xZJDhBxcywK1isU6CMI7Fl-wA34uXWwUWOQX_x82l7iS-os6JJiN1GVrsMhBKwknVFwVfUmql/s4000/697D66AD-6229-4132-806D-0C91DB8A06F0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, by Pieter Bruegel" border="0" data-original-height="2556" data-original-width="4000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsjz702VnWBVF8OxplxNdeSgEesRhMyfGEc9u-PT_0KnA6VYSz0Mv9PMgxe8ROwmvjFUxPMn63Ui9f8rtL23psDm81dVPk2fBkPdXzks_JjWAbK3xZJDhBxcywK1isU6CMI7Fl-wA34uXWwUWOQX_x82l7iS-os6JJiN1GVrsMhBKwknVFwVfUmql/s16000/697D66AD-6229-4132-806D-0C91DB8A06F0.jpeg" title="Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, by Pieter Bruegel" /></a></div><br />Have you read <i>What Painting Is</i>, by James Elkins? Much like the now infamous art history teacher of my university past, he argues that paintings are in fact about…the paint. Or rather, the alchemical, transformative nature that paint must undergo in order to become what we eventually see before us: a finished painting. It is easily one of the most creative and well written books I have come across. In the book Elkins studies <i>Landscape with the Fall of Icarus</i>, by Pieter Bruegel (above). <p></p><p>In his explorations of the alchemy of paint, from the mining of pigment, to the interpretation of the finished piece of art, he asks <i>what is Alchemy</i>? And the reader soon learns: it is the practice of taking a finished product (such as the paint medium, or the finished painting) and extracting from it until one has the original, and purified elements used to create it. Essentially: taking something whole, and reducing to stand-alone (pure) individual pieces.</p><p>Though Icarus the subject of the painting, the only thing that is visible of him is a pair of legs splashing into the water…perhaps only seen due to the contrast of a man’s red cap that guides the viewers eye to him. He is largely unseen in the painting that bears his name. And further, no one within the painting seems to care that Icarus is drowning, having fallen from the sky.</p><p>I often hear ourselves say that our favorite archetype is the underdog; we believe that we cheer on the bravery that springs from the chest daring to hope, or that we root for the boy who defiantly flies toward the sun, seeking new heights to explore. But what isn’t explored is the hypocrisy: collectively, if the downtrodden are too close, we experience discomfort to see them do poorly - and perhaps just as much, disdain to see them do (too) well. To separate too far from the status quo is (perceived as) a direct threat. In a culture of individuality, the betterment of one can feel detrimental to all, while the collective mire is the social paradigm. </p><p>My activist community leaders know what I allude to. The police chiefs know what I speak of…and when it comes to social justice movements, they count on it. The “affirmative action” generation knows this all too well. The parents of the biracial child have perhaps…failed to understand this at all; They believed themselves the brave ones while simultaneously failing to stand in-step with the child they brought into the world. Dreamers don’t always beget dreamers. Sometimes dreamers leave behind nothing but feathers and wax and legend. But maybe heroic responsibility is a trap, and maybe it’s owed to no one other than the one who dared to dream. </p><p>I’ve heard it in the Black voices of suburban families: The cautions of not getting <i>too close </i>nor<i> too comfortable</i>, and the harsh truth of: “<i>existence in itself is a form of protest</i>”. But the biracial child? Ask them to speak and see whom they dare to trust. I’ll tell you a secret - it is no one: because no one has a place for them as a whole (they must choose to be one or the other, even if it does not choose them). And much like the boy covered in wings, we’re all here trying to figure out how much room we’re allotted to take. </p><p>There is an inherent risk to want better. Icarus didn’t fall to his death because he dared to dream. Icarus fell because his community rejected his desire to want more… His father granting him the ability to do the impossible, only to tell him to think small. The canary didn’t sing because it was weak - it sang because all others refused to. The canary dropped dead in the coal mine because there were others who were deemed much too valuable to risk the potential reward. Both the canary and Icarus are told as cautionary tales because their stories were told by those who watched from the sidelines: their stories were told by the survivors. But…perhaps Icarus laughed as he fell...finding death on his own terms, of his own free will. </p><p>History often rewrites the brave and trailblazing actions of others as cautionary tales. Dreams are watered down into cozy sound bites that barely resemble the booming timbre of what originally filled the chest…it is impossible to soar for the sun with a featherweight conviction. No, the potential had been realized; even the seemingly impossible one. But one will be damned if they fail to take into honest account those who stand on the sidelines passively (or actively) hoping to see grand achievements repackaged as caution: it’s a rewriting of a truth that they haven’t understood.</p><p>Before the events of May 2021 I used to believe that wanting something good <i>was inherently</i> <i>good</i> in and of itself…and that through its simplicity of goodness, those desires would in turn attract the well meaning of all others. Looking back I’m embarrassed by the naïveté. (It’s through this embarrassment that I question whether heroic responsibility does indeed have its place within communities and collective morale.)</p><p>What I am not embarrassed of, and what I do find comfort in are the stories of the two ill fated dreamers of Icarus and the Canary. Daring to dream and falling from grace…doesn’t mean failure. The dream, the song, the flight -these are the accomplishments that must be remembered. The canaries in the coal mine still flew where others refused to: Icarus soared to heights so high that he sought to kiss the sun…to which he very nearly succeeded - is this not why the sun was able to melt the wax off his wings? </p><p>The survivors who watched from a safe distance would say that they failed…But these are not the ones we should be listening to; for it’s often those who stand to the side that try to moralize and explain away the dreams of others when they themselves remained at a safe distance, and played small. But who are they to attempt to moralize or place caution to a dream, or a view they’ll never make sacrifices see?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU54qcJ7Wv7aqOToJQY_BmGNgfp13GmMR2TJL7p8TxHfBKdNB9gXnLncpjYacY70ZtjesdS-1_3jhUF35dLdeJBHgGKJzlALYZ0YBVKqLHPtkUBV34GRV0iaz81ghxylEQWjerbyNlrQseAPCTXKy4ZzDdES_QcYgBgshpUFQ01hV0aFJIdAu7yc_O/s16000/662D5DCE-73BD-435E-9013-C04947D8CB94.jpeg" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqMpcpFl9WpzNKZWQiLUHB6w2MA4bA69_UtcpsnKH_BE6RmRtSaRBlqdTF-2P15tQXtXTBM4HQY5j4BQa2CYQoGncr_JDL7FH2DBKf102o_JFATCJS970rPgfcoY74CSp6-Ak_x6TkMoliBIKs-5OVoz0cT5-a9NdcEOuH2NQLDGyzV2KFBHivjcD/s2703/57870A60-7144-4A86-98B8-3E8E356B2DE8.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2703" data-original-width="2285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqMpcpFl9WpzNKZWQiLUHB6w2MA4bA69_UtcpsnKH_BE6RmRtSaRBlqdTF-2P15tQXtXTBM4HQY5j4BQa2CYQoGncr_JDL7FH2DBKf102o_JFATCJS970rPgfcoY74CSp6-Ak_x6TkMoliBIKs-5OVoz0cT5-a9NdcEOuH2NQLDGyzV2KFBHivjcD/s16000/57870A60-7144-4A86-98B8-3E8E356B2DE8.jpeg" title="The Lament for Icarus, by Herbert James Draper, 1898, oil on canvas Tate Museum" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-15263402785438743582023-01-03T10:46:00.003-08:002023-01-03T10:46:45.679-08:00I Am Happy <p>At the times when my ego flares up and asks me: “are you actually happy? Do you even know what happiness is?” I am reminded that yes, I am happy. How do I know?</p><p>Because I wouldn’t change a thing. Not a single thing. The events of 2021 absolutely rocked me. I thought I had experienced “earth in upheaval” before then and it’s true: I won’t dismiss the earthquakes of life that had rattled me previously. But 2021? There was no upheaval. There was no great shaking of my foundations…instead I watched my life completely dissolve “like salt in a weakened broth” and there was no holding on. There was nothing safe to cling to, and in the very darkest moments when I finally faced and accepted that, I found myself in an empty room: literally and figuratively. </p><p>Instead, I decided to see how the Universe could rebuild a person pulled from the acid vat of cancellation…and I can tell you; I regret nothing. I wouldn’t change a single thing. Not a single step along the way do I remorse. I can’t. There is no salvation in “what if”. There is no silver lining or warm embrace of imagining a different past…one can only move forward. </p><p>And that’s how I know I am happy. I stared deeply into the pit, I threw it flowers, I listened to my demons and I learned their names…and instead of fearing them, locking them away, or drowning out their screams, I befriended them. I think that is what is meant in the saying “true freedom is embracing loneliness” because; one is only alone if in isolation…and isolation is an act of avoiding the things we cannot face. </p><p>I am happy. </p><p>A poem on <a href="https://poets.org/poem/kindness" target="_blank">kindness</a>. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJqiDQCTSNLyxAj3l2WNJmA1it--1ACyI6r_DMqFhslO-4p2CA3Zu7zdkrtXMF2jYQn02enYSc_3Wjea8_EQJzkdAIM40Mqgk4DEFXMex5z0CnKcZSC8lx_6OzbNiPE70C9b6P5PyIv-y9iUVVkulQEj_lG_8if6YXr9KvwU-HN-10hl_5qK8MkD6/s1080/01BB1E6C-4DB0-4836-8E55-F33B13C64CE5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJqiDQCTSNLyxAj3l2WNJmA1it--1ACyI6r_DMqFhslO-4p2CA3Zu7zdkrtXMF2jYQn02enYSc_3Wjea8_EQJzkdAIM40Mqgk4DEFXMex5z0CnKcZSC8lx_6OzbNiPE70C9b6P5PyIv-y9iUVVkulQEj_lG_8if6YXr9KvwU-HN-10hl_5qK8MkD6/s16000/01BB1E6C-4DB0-4836-8E55-F33B13C64CE5.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-19352015518272347432023-01-02T11:46:00.001-08:002023-01-02T11:46:11.103-08:00What I Am Still<p>It’s been hard for me to write. Inspiration presents itself in spurts. I try to tell myself various excuses as to why it’s so hard to get my thoughts out: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>because I am having to re-discover who I am </li><li>because I no longer know who you, the reader is</li><li>…or that because I do know exactly who you the reader is, and choose to remain silent </li><li>because my writing pieces now seem to wander…that the process of needing to find my voice has begun all over again</li></ul><p></p><p>I also tell myself that part of my hesitation to write is because I fear that somewhere along the way I will find myself trying to explain away parts of myself, or even worse, justify those parts. </p><p>In April of last year I read <a href="https://www.amazon.com/shop/amusedblog/list/ZFCKP6FTA7HG?ref_=cm_sw_r_cp_ud_aipsflist_aipsfamusedblog_3VZ7T4EPSX45X8178JC6" target="_blank">a series of books</a> 📚 that helped me develop a kindness for myself that I did not previously have. Somewhere within that journey I found a self acceptance. It wasn’t a solo act - the acceptance. Rather, it surprisingly came from those around me appearing to simply say “fuck what strangers think of you”. I say it’s surprising because with the many changes that have happened over the course of the last two years, a sense of isolation has settled within me. Sometimes I easily forget that I am not alone…or as alone as I may feel. </p><p>It’s a strange experience because there is no single triumphant or devastating outcome: it’s both. There are parts of me that are more confident and hopeful than ever. And there are parts of me that have become quite reclusive and timid. And lord…if you only knew how very much I want out. “<i>Out from what?</i>” </p><p>(I think this also a part of the journey: how do I speak my mind fairly and accurately without alienating myself? Or better yet, how do I determine the safety of the spaces in which I choose to speak my mind? And more resolutely: understanding that not everyone should have access to my mind.)</p><p>It sounds romantic, libertine even…to pull inward to oneself so as to become stronger, forgoing the lame exercise of worrying what others think. But I am still a woman and while a ‘devil may care’ attitude may carry me some places, there remains a gun at my back also…and the trick seems to balance a flirtation with the trigger finger, but not anger it enough to pull.</p><p>I have nothing revolutionary to share. Nothing that’s going to shed light or clarity or encouragement. Though I am sure that those thoughts are in here somewhere. Actually, I know that they are…because I’ve experienced them…I’ve felt them. Yesterday, and today, and last week, and month…you get the point. I think the biggest takeaway is that today, I actually got something out. I got something down. I wrote a thing. </p><p>I think that’s all that has to matter for me today. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieV-Rm2padY2yXNUintTUaVufweoUi3vS3BDMHADrKH__T7lI35xhBJnZj3Dcolziwz2d5sKKE4kJE-6nBorcTqgu4-yzh_vmrP8MiFtbkV0oYLUMjpx7Jb5ptT5kDLx-2LGHWhD4TdNEJaou0fyJK47Wlal1e_MctzoR506rNc4SuA6Er50k6OLyW/s1080/6A761BC8-2B8C-45F8-854B-D810A27BBEE7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieV-Rm2padY2yXNUintTUaVufweoUi3vS3BDMHADrKH__T7lI35xhBJnZj3Dcolziwz2d5sKKE4kJE-6nBorcTqgu4-yzh_vmrP8MiFtbkV0oYLUMjpx7Jb5ptT5kDLx-2LGHWhD4TdNEJaou0fyJK47Wlal1e_MctzoR506rNc4SuA6Er50k6OLyW/s16000/6A761BC8-2B8C-45F8-854B-D810A27BBEE7.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-26451140294608865622023-01-01T11:12:00.006-08:002023-01-01T20:23:21.988-08:00Happy 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS-PPcFa5Ysx1kXLuPWQRLqYHJFahe6lGWr9-tvCUdKRX-IWehm57-o_wuFIT96GVNxBoSr7oYnvphlH1jgHEKhCg9k6nHjPwmW3bZCKj-S9Ndkwxdv_KtBvHmovWnYpytgKIAo2y-9jI-Acmj4EBYjZj58kKy7nmN_3MnZdy5FZtkvGAbwVmda8g7/s4032/412DE0D7-3D79-4570-9725-38463349BE85.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Amber Lucas Amused Blog AmberAmusedBlog" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS-PPcFa5Ysx1kXLuPWQRLqYHJFahe6lGWr9-tvCUdKRX-IWehm57-o_wuFIT96GVNxBoSr7oYnvphlH1jgHEKhCg9k6nHjPwmW3bZCKj-S9Ndkwxdv_KtBvHmovWnYpytgKIAo2y-9jI-Acmj4EBYjZj58kKy7nmN_3MnZdy5FZtkvGAbwVmda8g7/s16000/412DE0D7-3D79-4570-9725-38463349BE85.jpeg" /></a></div><br />I think the grandest gift that we can give to others and ourselves is hope. It’s a fragile and almost intangible thing…but its currency is the effervescence that is life. In the moments where I feel flattened out and hopeless, I try to speak to myself as a friend would: that <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2016/03/all-floods-go.html" target="_blank">these moments too shall pass</a>. That joy will once again return, and I will be able to see color through the grey once more. May your day be a spectrum of bright vibrant colors…and if you’re not yet there, don’t fret. The hues of life are still here. <i>Ils attendent pour toi</i>. <p></p><p><br /></p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-60473167686771735092022-06-21T04:15:00.010-07:002022-06-22T13:00:06.857-07:00Outfit: Springtime in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Back to a simpler time in Paris, 2019 - before the COVID-19/SARS-Co-V 2 pandemic, when the Louvre Museum was open to visitors, and the streets dotted with Parisians going about their daily lives. These were surreal times, my dears. Now three years later in May 2022 (I realize this is being published in June), Paris is again swelling under tourism, and it is I who am now deeply changed from the woman in these photos. In the four months that I have spent in Paris, I have crossed the street (below) several times - every time I think back to this day, these photos…When these images were taken I was in flight; broke up with an abusive boyfriend (whom I would later win a 5 year restraining order against in June 2020) and escaped to Paris without telling folks where I was headed. And now the Amber in Paris is one again fighting an entirely different abusive system. <br /><br />But no need to talk about that. If I could experience what I was when these photos were taken and still keep that glint in my eye; I know I can get it back again now.<div>🖤<br />
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<br /></div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comParis, France48.856614 2.352221948.6894645 2.0294984 49.0237635 2.6749454tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-32559813734629587562022-01-17T11:31:00.000-08:002022-05-03T11:33:09.781-07:00La vie ensemble <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWK2z7iL2Ji76DP_T-9ohHFYZHsWfL0rUOJBWl5nffeUzr1_yD_9CiuGUVim4H-JWZHmySk2kzVNNPcZZLu6w5oH1kUHJnjxuj8yIdgeW8TkzWFPoXWmTfqlMQ-KI6IorCeYmRChizQBTsNwNweSHMC-asTkRLOKnTl4L55VM-Ilq4R5MBaU79w-5/s4032/A7F21F61-3137-48A0-9DEB-442129B66BA7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWK2z7iL2Ji76DP_T-9ohHFYZHsWfL0rUOJBWl5nffeUzr1_yD_9CiuGUVim4H-JWZHmySk2kzVNNPcZZLu6w5oH1kUHJnjxuj8yIdgeW8TkzWFPoXWmTfqlMQ-KI6IorCeYmRChizQBTsNwNweSHMC-asTkRLOKnTl4L55VM-Ilq4R5MBaU79w-5/s16000/A7F21F61-3137-48A0-9DEB-442129B66BA7.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div>I got up and walked away, closing the bedroom door behind me. Sitting on the bed beneath the 12 foot ceiling, I rested my elbows on my knees, buried my face in my hands, and let the tears flow. <i>Happiness</i><span> - a warm room, a good friend, and beautiful music accompanied with soup on the stove were just on the other side of the widow-paneled bedroom door, and it was overwhelming. Cigarette smoke hung in the air in the living room - a scent that I was adjusting to…my headaches were beginning to ease from its constant presence, and I had accepted that if I wanted to spend time with my friend, I was going to have up my tolerance.</span></div><p></p><p>Every evening we eat together, making soup, with me usually buying bread at the local boulangerie across the road. On weekends he buys pastries. Every morning we drink coffee (him) and tea (me) before he leaves for work, and I for my morning jog. Each day is started with a “ça va?”as I poke my heard out the bedroom door, followed by a grunt response from him on the pull out sofa in the living room, and a “Salut Kiki” from me, as I shuffle to the bathroom.</p><p>Kiki the cat - whom my friend calls rude for asking to go out every morning between 5-6am, I call polite; he doesn’t like to use his litter box, and insists to go out every morning before sunrise, subsequently sleeping late into the morning, long after my friend leaves for work, and I return from my morning jog in Butte-Chaumont. </p><p>In the beginning, after a return from a weekend in the countryside, he asked me to move in with him: “we could make a life together” he said. I responded with panic, and a ringing in my ears. Suddenly I forgot all my French…and English too. Drowning in a panic of anxiety I bolted out the door and quickly buried myself under covers and dove deep into a Netflix binge of Riverdale seeking safety in the distance of the detached room next door. A few days later he came to me armed with arguments: “you are so outspoken about everything else: #MeToo, BLM, your demands for a better world - and yet when it comes to a simple discussion between friends you run. What is this?” Familiar words. </p><p>So, we are giving it a go - this “vie ensemble” together, but separate. He knows immediately when I am stressed, or in a mood, and asks me directly about it - and I don’t like that. He too has his moods and and increasingly random rants. He smokes three hand rolled cigarettes with his morning pour-over coffee, and when he returns from work, often after 8pm, he has to smoke before he eats. But we have a rhythm. A rhythm that feels more and more like home, like a space being hollowed out in my heart that only these moments will be able to occupy. </p><p>When I buy cheese, he weighs it to make sure the price per gram is correct, and that I wasn’t “robbed”. My first week in town I bought Prèsident brand Camembert. He is from Normandie; and I heard about my faux pas for nearly two weeks (..!); he told his mother, his boss, neighbors, his friends. I was also instructed on the importance of never mixing the butter and cheese knives when slathering my bread with either. He doesn’t leave for work before 10am. The sun rises slow here in the winter - with the sun peaking above the arrondissements at quarter to 9. </p><p>I am so in love with my life in Paris. FipRadio plays in the background while we are home, with our conversations often leading to music; he introduced me to Pink Floyd Live in Pompeii. He tells me stories from the time he used to work in a recording studio - about who rented out the entire studio for a week to record an album, and which popular jazz-soul artist couldn’t find a note to save their life. How he had rubbed shoulders with major performers and dj’s. And, yes, there’s a bit of ego to it sometimes…or perhaps its a longing to go back in time…but I forgive him for it - because I’d have a bit of that too, I think. </p><p>We talk about love, past relationships, depression, problematic therapists, and how perfectly content we are in our own company. He tells me silly stories of when he and his friends would go camping in the woods as kids. In Normandie, the forest is just on the other side the rock wall in his backyard. On the weekend that we spent there with his mother, we took a walk in the rain through the trees, which were so dense we barely felt the droplets; and when the church bells rang in the distance, it finally processed for me: I’m not in Sonoma County anymore. </p><p>When I cry he lets it happen. He doesn’t shift his body uncomfortably, attempt to hug me, or rush to wipe tears away, or ask me to explain them. He is almost indifferent to them, letting them pass like a breeze. I like that. Though, he does seem a bit softer towards me for a day or two after. </p><p>We didn’t spent Christmas together, or New Years…which had me feeling sad. I was happy with how I would be spending Christmas - but I also wanted to see my friend. Then, on the 28th he messaged me to let me know he had Covid. I checked in with him every day. Then his mother got it too. And then on New Year’s Day, his mother’s dog had a heart attack, and passed away. He would be delayed in the countryside due to quarantine regulations, and I would help out with his small business in his absence; and while he dug a grave, shovel in hand, he FaceTimed me to show me how to use the washing machine. </p><p>I hope he is my friend for life. I hope he is my anchor to France that I return to over and over again, until we figure out how to keep me here forever. His neighbors will lecture me on how there is more to France than Paris (true), and I’ll pester him to drive us back to the county, until eventually he moves there permanently. And then it will be my turn: I’ll follow him to Normandie, to a modest two bedroom home with a fireplace, where we’ll make soup, and he’ll tinker around in the shed…A simple life. A good life shared between two friends. </p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comParis, France48.856614 2.35222193.1241605597505568 -67.9602781 90 72.6647219tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-63351969400254817152022-01-08T02:12:00.001-08:002022-05-03T11:10:41.811-07:00Where in Paris would you live?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhk4Ddjgy8Tx_obnt8KnVVqS9Mav0IHOpC4SwL9ZcvUg6tGB0FRXdH_AVZYuKxcXNE0JujQjZGIjuop4atsCKmucZItCXNl5pbi40XuY236bn06ogSaWEABogFkIYynOYbonTMAK9_LR-JvLzG26FIocjgfbfw0MNEMnv9ZK0s2oS9ZhNE7rHfVnfAS=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhk4Ddjgy8Tx_obnt8KnVVqS9Mav0IHOpC4SwL9ZcvUg6tGB0FRXdH_AVZYuKxcXNE0JujQjZGIjuop4atsCKmucZItCXNl5pbi40XuY236bn06ogSaWEABogFkIYynOYbonTMAK9_LR-JvLzG26FIocjgfbfw0MNEMnv9ZK0s2oS9ZhNE7rHfVnfAS=s16000" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnQBOqc0tHdQUU7vR6V_A1VSr94i_JWhmzVSe3_OWhweQAUNvgrBwFCJ4u74QGVTubCWosIs0X3Dm0V9p0Kg4sgrDCLcWKdtyt-yP-4SWIk2_1YhJlra2Kpw3i_3PvzBS99flUxZdQZFjVCvE9qTJeU6KGfiM-PzLQtDEvvHlF23Fmyc9vXP9I3ylh=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnQBOqc0tHdQUU7vR6V_A1VSr94i_JWhmzVSe3_OWhweQAUNvgrBwFCJ4u74QGVTubCWosIs0X3Dm0V9p0Kg4sgrDCLcWKdtyt-yP-4SWIk2_1YhJlra2Kpw3i_3PvzBS99flUxZdQZFjVCvE9qTJeU6KGfiM-PzLQtDEvvHlF23Fmyc9vXP9I3ylh=s16000" /></a></div><br /> “If you could live anywhere in Paris, where would you live? Where you are now, in the 19eme arrondissement, or elsewhere?”<p></p><p>“My first grand love in Paris was Montmartre. The hills, the narrow winding streets, the social cats, the artisan jewelers…the views and bells that rang crisp through the air. You could hear the city bustling below. The neighborhood is popular yes, but it is also tucked away, much like Belleville. I still hear people say ‘I need to go down into Paris today’.</p><p>Next, I had a secret love affair with the Marais. It’s the quintessential Paris that tourists thinks of. I found it to be tongue in cheek because everyone - especially the girls who love to romanticize the city by editing photos in low saturated grey tones, dressed in their over the knee boots and flared skirts, loved it here. I remember a time when I wanted to be that girl too: decked out in stripes and designer, teetering in heels on cobblestone streets. An old man saw me with my camera there once and gave me a walking tour of his childhood memories. He introduced me to boulangerie owners. Friends on the street. Took me for a cafe. Just because. That’s what the Marais is to me now; sweet memories that someone else gave me to hold. </p><p>Just this year, I’ve discovered the heart of the St. Germain des Prés neighborhood. I’m embarrassed by that. I’ve been to this city so many times; it’s been a good check to my ego in that you can never fully know, or understand a city, no matter how much you love it. Perhaps that’s why I love it: it can still surprise me in wonderful ways. It can still teach me new things. One time while having lunch a mouse darted out from under my chair, and next to my foot. I froze. And then decided to name her “Sourisette” as in ‘little female mouse’. I snuck her fries under the table for our entire meal, and she ate everything except the parsley. </p><p>But…honestly, I think I’d live on the isle of Saint Louis. If cost were no consequence of course. I’d live in a spacious, herringbone wood floor apartment with floor to ceiling windows, facing in the direction with the most light. I’d want to wake up to the sounds of the city mingled with the waves and the boats. To be nestled between the Pantheon and Sacré Cœur; to eventually hear the bells of Nôtre Dame ring once more. I’d want to be there for that. For when the tourists leave full of new memories, and observe my neighbors come and go about their daily lives. To watch the Seine change colors with the light; to watch the tide rise and fall. To have my canvases and paints scattered about over my drop cloth, coffee in hand, wine collection in the background. To have my daily jog on the cobblestone riverbank, scanning faces for the familiar smiles and nods…to return home with a clearer head after a chilly afternoon, and write. </p><p>Don’t let them tell you the French ‘don’t smile’; it isn’t true. </p><p>It’s a dream, I know. And sometimes I feel silly for wanting something so grand and magical. But I know someone in one of those Haussmanns is living it. I can feel it. I’m happy for them. I hope someday it could be me too. I don’t want a big, grand life in Paris: I just want my routine, my corner nook of home. I’ve found it here, I just want above all things the ability to stay.”</p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-86890774902379483702021-10-05T13:53:00.008-07:002021-10-05T14:18:27.823-07:007 Tips to Moisturize and Protect Naturally Curly Hair for Fall <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3E6Z9Q0iJlmz_pGphAq3HKmugKNjQ21VlLa4ukCER3b5I9TXEFEdNCjWxr6HuIjgp-Anw9yrCE8gIBSvcigww2aFNAfqwpK2Ndg7uMN5cGM7YAjmoA-uHTa-JyaXnhdKUblbG0xXkH_8/s2048/B6DC76CE-19BD-47F2-B20D-E871C529DF0D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3E6Z9Q0iJlmz_pGphAq3HKmugKNjQ21VlLa4ukCER3b5I9TXEFEdNCjWxr6HuIjgp-Anw9yrCE8gIBSvcigww2aFNAfqwpK2Ndg7uMN5cGM7YAjmoA-uHTa-JyaXnhdKUblbG0xXkH_8/s16000/B6DC76CE-19BD-47F2-B20D-E871C529DF0D.jpeg" /></a></div><br />The seasons are changing! Crunchy leaves, roasted veggies, and warm drinks abound for Autumn. As do the drying affects on our hair - due to the natural coil shape of curly hair, our natural curls are more prone to moisture loss and brittle dryness when the temperatures drop. Be one step ahead with these tips and ticks to moisturize and protect naturally curly hair for fall. And; at the bottom I have linked to great products that have become the standard for my everyday fall hair styles. Enjoy!<p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuziP1wWhcLCnZ9xEaFqwkL3yP6OQRoYRQ1j5Vq3VB__ZMgn5jIDTAe53GQjgCm4jYyPfcEcPbO4yz_61VRPiJdHAOJ-EYVnoBEVhjXD5qPhkFv8KINW4g5oZ2K72tAH_pz8lRbPTdqbc/s2000/E04729A3-0328-42A3-A77E-CE977BA6245B.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuziP1wWhcLCnZ9xEaFqwkL3yP6OQRoYRQ1j5Vq3VB__ZMgn5jIDTAe53GQjgCm4jYyPfcEcPbO4yz_61VRPiJdHAOJ-EYVnoBEVhjXD5qPhkFv8KINW4g5oZ2K72tAH_pz8lRbPTdqbc/s16000/E04729A3-0328-42A3-A77E-CE977BA6245B.png" /></a></div><br /><h2 style="text-align: left;">Moisturize your natural curls </h2><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Pre-Shampoo</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">P</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">rotect your natural curly hair from the de-tangling and shampooing process by using a <a href="https://amzn.to/3iAjnyZ">pre-shampoo</a>. A pre-shampoo helps protect your hair strands from losing too much moisture, or “good oils” from the shampooing process, while also providing a protective “slip” while de-tangling. It will add extra moisture as well, which will make your hair softer, and easier to manage.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QX2KNL1?ascsubtag=amzn1.ideas.3HKV6GXY8CWTU&linkCode=li2&tag=amubl0a-20&linkId=a5652404ae74674a3fe965ef98e5bb82&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B07QX2KNL1&Format=_SL160_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=amubl0a-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=amubl0a-20&language=en_US&l=li2&o=1&a=B07QX2KNL1" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: normal;"><b>Natural ingredients</b></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: normal; font-weight: normal;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: normal; font-weight: normal;">When adding more moisture to your styling routine, look for products that contain honey or Aloe Vera. Don’t worry - the honey won’t make your hair sticky. Both ingredients are a great way to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/shop/amusedblog?ref=ac_inf_hm_vp" target="_blank">seal in moisture for your curls</a>, and also help them keep their shape and fight frizz without the use of hair gels, which can be drying. Aloe Vera can also be used as a scalp treatment!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><script type="text/javascript">
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<script src="//z-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/onejs?MarketPlace=US"></script></span></div><p><b>DIY treatments</b><br />You don’t need to spend a large amount of money on hair treatments - save yourself some money and make your own hair masks at home! Mash up a banana, avocado, add some honey or mayonnaise and you’ve got yourself a nice fatty and oil rich hair mask that will protect your curly hair, adding moisture and shine while protecting your natural curls. </p><b>Be mild</b><div>Doing a cold rinse on your hair at the end of your shower helps close the hair shaft, resulting in shiny curls. But in the fall with dropping temperatures, it can be hard to want to end a nice warm shower on a “cold note” - so in a compromise, try to make sure the last rinse of your hair is with a nice mild temperature. </div><div><br /></div><div>➤<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Want to browse my favorite products for naturally curl hair? <a href="https://www.amazon.com/shop/amusedblog?ref=ac_inf_hm_vp" target="_blank">Visit my storefront</a>! </span></b><br /><h2 style="text-align: left;">Protect your natural curls </h2><div><b>Oils for natural hair </b></div><div>Oils can be a saver for sealing in moisture for thirsty curls! Just be sure that you are layering them in at the right step your styling routine, and not use too much. Some oils can be drying - while others can be deeply penetrating to the hair shaft, making them beneficial. Jojoba, avocado, and sunflower and castor oils can all be great for natural curls. It will take some experimentation to figure out what works best for your hair. Be sure to apply after your hair lotion, and before any gels or mousse.</div><div><br /></div><div>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LB9WEXO?ascsubtag=amzn1.ideas.3HKV6GXY8CWTU&linkCode=li3&tag=amubl0a-20&linkId=997bd7cdf3dee2cbaceb71a9e0c3e184&language=en_US&ref_=as_li_ss_il" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B01LB9WEXO&Format=_SL250_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=amubl0a-20&language=en_US" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=amubl0a-20&language=en_US&l=li3&o=1&a=B01LB9WEXO" style="border: none; margin: 0px;" width="1" /> </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Protective styles</b></div></div></div>Protective styles don’t have to be boring! Braids, hair buns, “the pineapple”, bantu buns are all fun protective styles that you can wear. How about a milkmaid braid, or locs? And remember: no matter what your hairstyle, it’s professional. Do not let anyone tell you that your locs are not professional: they are. Another thing to remember is to always protect the ends of your hair - as the oldest part of the strand our ends are the most vulnerable to split ends and knots. Be sure to tuck them in, or wrap them to prevent breakage.<div><br /></div><div><script type="text/javascript">
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<script src="//z-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/onejs?MarketPlace=US"></script></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Silk and Satin protection</b> </div><div>Satin sleep caps, pillowcases, and even satin lined hats and beanies for day wear will help prevent snagging and breakage of baby hairs, while also prevent tugging of our strands. A more expensive option is silk. Silk is ideal as it is a natural fiber which becomes softer with use and washings. But satin will work well too. </div><div><br /></div><div><script type="text/javascript">
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<script src="//z-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/onejs?MarketPlace=US"></script></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Be gentle</b></div><div>Remember that what curls need the most is water - it’s the most important “ingredient” for our hair! So drink up to get your daily water intake. Also always gently de-tangle hair while wet (using a pre-shampoo), and then once you’ve got your styling products in, hand off your hair! Constant playing/ touching of the hair can zap it of moisture and natural oils, causing tangles, etc.</div><div><script type="text/javascript">
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<script src="//z-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/onejs?MarketPlace=US"></script></div><div><br /></div><div>Cheers!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p><br /></p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-65096691001288099892021-09-09T09:45:00.003-07:002021-09-09T09:46:18.980-07:00Caymus Vineyards Special Selection Cabernet Sauvignon 2011 Review<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6hNbKNkybu8ulxo33UtoYf83M79u5gq70I9zz5l-fjcCavr6NCArgoKYEZMdkyRUxbk1URGIE6dK817tvYT0fd8lmPB6KTBwMSwD4spUVq6L22V-D4SDJd484qmLO_v5XkWgekwgoV4/s2048/078F23ED-CDA4-42B1-BE30-DC05958CB393.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6hNbKNkybu8ulxo33UtoYf83M79u5gq70I9zz5l-fjcCavr6NCArgoKYEZMdkyRUxbk1URGIE6dK817tvYT0fd8lmPB6KTBwMSwD4spUVq6L22V-D4SDJd484qmLO_v5XkWgekwgoV4/s16000/078F23ED-CDA4-42B1-BE30-DC05958CB393.jpeg" /></a></div><br />I was lucky (blessed) to have two birthday dinners this year, and for my first “pre-birthday” dinner I was gifted a bottle of <a href="https://www.caymus.com/#/homepage" target="_blank">Caymus Vineyards</a> Special Selection Cabernet Sauvignon, 2011. They say to never look a gift horse…but I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that when others gift wines that have been aged, it’s hard for me not to feel a twinge of anxiety about how well the bottle was looked after. <p></p><p>I’m excited to say that the 2011 vintage did <i>not</i> disappoint. The bottle was opened just after the appetizers were ordered, in efforts to allow it to breathe until the entrées arrived. Dinner started with a bright and zesty Caesar Salad and champagne, and for my entrée I had a roasted mushroom, spinach, and gouda spanakopita. It was a perfect pairing! Being vegetarian, I know to instinctively swap the suggested meat pairings for either a mushroom or eggplant-based plate (though I like to steer clear of large portobello mushrooms because I often find them very watery).</p><p>The 2011 Caymus Special Selection Cabernet Sauvignon had aged beautifully; the cork was perfectly intact, the wine was full bodied and there wasn’t much light getting through the juice (which is perfect!). In the glass there was just a touch of tawny-ness along the rim, while the rest of the pour was a deep garnet. I was also picking up on aromas of “smoke” - something quite similar to a <i>Lapsan Souchong</i> (a Chinese black tea known for its smoky and woody aromas). I also picked up on what I would describe as “warm blackberries” on the nose - like if a basket of blackberries had been left in direct sunlight for an afternoon. </p><p>On the palate the tannins were well rounded and soft, with a touch of dried flowers, and bursting with dark fruit flavors such a blackberry and blueberry. There was a nice spice - one that I wouldn’t associate with “bite” of tanins or acidity, and the mouthfeel was like velvet…it had a gentle weight to it. The acid of this wine kept it drinkable, and prevented this full bodied wine from feeling too weighty, or heavy. After letting it breathe for about 45 minutes, after my first two sips (my brain honestly short-circuited on the first) my words were “..<i>wow</i>!” Needless to say, if you have the opportunity to get your hands on this beautiful wine, please don’t hesitate!</p><p>The Caymus Vineyards Special Selection Cabernet Sauvignon is Rutherford Napa Valley grown. The <i>Special Selection</i> isn’t consistently harvested every year: on “challenging” years, they may choose not to pick the fruits, and the amount of cases produced varies from harvest to harvest. For their wines, Caymus practices what they call “hang time” which is when the fruit is allowed to remain on the vine for as long s possible - meaning taking the chance of an early winter arrival and the loss of fruit; but if things go as planned, results in an increase of color, more mature tanins, and a beautiful suppleness of the fruit. This practice is one of the many things that makes Caymus so famous for their Cabernet Sauvignons. The increased ripeness of their fruits is what makes their wines such a joy. </p><p>Want to see this wine in action? Head on over to my Instagram account, and check out my #<a href="https://www.instagram.com/amusedblog/guide/sips-n-skincare/17926465444663253/?utm_medium=copy_link" target="_blank">SipsNSkincare feature</a>, located in my Series tab! I’ve made a short Reel to share with you there. </p><p>Cheers!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHq4HpWAkF5-ug6yG5qFyA-xPvuO_C9DiMP8zJW1GamgU6D4SpzFyRRW4kw03LZMaVeoVxGsZ0yEt0tamwNSQPbCNULga7Y39Iv95AjBRLDqw7OZWxjDHoFcXkab3f888o0sGES1Lij1k/s2048/375A0A43-A2A9-405B-B37D-56C8AD242AFD.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHq4HpWAkF5-ug6yG5qFyA-xPvuO_C9DiMP8zJW1GamgU6D4SpzFyRRW4kw03LZMaVeoVxGsZ0yEt0tamwNSQPbCNULga7Y39Iv95AjBRLDqw7OZWxjDHoFcXkab3f888o0sGES1Lij1k/s16000/375A0A43-A2A9-405B-B37D-56C8AD242AFD.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmGJV_ef-KYbY_6LlfIVqN5nhwodDxJIVusDoSNgqYHfLrx1aYYA9h7sCdy2GwYN83an98PsHLEpRHpRkw67QWbcRn86Ic4yOOOmN1dhwQj0N2M2qe8VeK9buHFyYxrip717EvPUCmtM/s2048/5C068B9F-6614-465B-A9A6-E890273B9256.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmGJV_ef-KYbY_6LlfIVqN5nhwodDxJIVusDoSNgqYHfLrx1aYYA9h7sCdy2GwYN83an98PsHLEpRHpRkw67QWbcRn86Ic4yOOOmN1dhwQj0N2M2qe8VeK9buHFyYxrip717EvPUCmtM/s16000/5C068B9F-6614-465B-A9A6-E890273B9256.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comSonoma County, CA38.5779555 -122.988831910.267721663821156 -158.14508189999998 66.88818933617884 -87.8325819tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-44569133832193375752021-09-06T11:03:00.004-07:002021-09-06T11:11:55.174-07:00The melody comes next <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1JYOXZsLoxCvTC-GtwvttZ4MeHKfw_0Ti5QrFHacqCJVzSHJAcYnTDPZqh051YRlsdm83TkHMNo3DS3UoOlDxHdDlJRmrFzyMdSJacURVqry84H-ivcYhdgcyYI4t0OElhnIpTM5a28/s2048/52D0383E-8FC2-4073-81C5-3EFCD30E4060.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Amber Lucas Amused Blog sits at her writing desk, with computer in the background, surrounded by plants" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1JYOXZsLoxCvTC-GtwvttZ4MeHKfw_0Ti5QrFHacqCJVzSHJAcYnTDPZqh051YRlsdm83TkHMNo3DS3UoOlDxHdDlJRmrFzyMdSJacURVqry84H-ivcYhdgcyYI4t0OElhnIpTM5a28/s16000/52D0383E-8FC2-4073-81C5-3EFCD30E4060.jpeg" title="Amber Lucas AMused Blog sits at her writing desk" /></a></div><br />Dear AMused Blog readers,<p></p><p>It’s been so long since I’ve written to you in the way that I used to: a journal style entry. Over the years I have worked on my writing voice, crafting it in a way that I wanted to be both relatable but also “pr worthy” (I think I have accomplished that quite well). But - I do miss the more serendipitous ways that this site used to operate: crafting thrifted outfits in my tiny 240 sq ft studio that I shared with my then boyfriend, cat, and guinea pig, off of Santa Rosa Ave. I wanted so badly to be seen as more - and to hide that I was living in a studio that was adjacent to a trailer park. That was 10 years ago now.</p><p>A week ago I turned 36. Last night I called my mother to say hello and we spoke all the way until midnight. I told her about the two words that I am “holding space for, waiting for them to become more mailable in my hands…to see what shape they will take.” I told her these two words are important; they will form the foundation of my best selling memoir. We spoke about James Baldwin, Angela Davis, and how children and dogs will always, always tell on their parents and owners in the most unexpected ways.</p><p>Right now I am waiting for my caffeine to kick in - a loose leaf black tea (that I am certain I have absolutely made too strong) that will give me the jolt needed to find the resolve to go hiking before it gets too hot. I love hiking. At least, I hope I still do. Hiking has been a struggle lately; perhaps it’s because I’m not taking in enough calories, or because it’s been so smoky and hot…or perhaps a combination of the two. Time outdoors, otc serotonin boosters, and the company of animals keep me positive these days - so I need to remind myself that hiking, eating, and socializing in the ways that I can will keep me healthy.</p><p>I thought I knew what you wanted to read here; the bts tell-all of the events in May, but I must say…I am pleasantly surprised (soothed?) to discover that most of you simply want to know that I am ok. And the answer is…I am adjusting. I have found a rhythm. I am hoping that a melody will come next…and then the lyrics, and then the hook.</p><p>Thank you for being here. </p><p>Amber </p>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-64683399128715435122021-08-23T13:27:00.000-07:002021-08-23T13:27:02.738-07:00#AMusedStory: Early Life on the East Coast <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxX2n6EBzhWsqMPSf8UOoGFRT5OkXpMS0xz71OQIDHxuHkrP0_6ADNWLXtJGrc9ujtAkV1W_AEDMTyKEwQzvnB2dr9hcNixm-Mydk23Nf1rXpWKwP7pE4s1fPewFNGbMtpu5cKA4vtdc/s2048/05D273E6-755B-4504-BE00-92744A2EAFAF.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxX2n6EBzhWsqMPSf8UOoGFRT5OkXpMS0xz71OQIDHxuHkrP0_6ADNWLXtJGrc9ujtAkV1W_AEDMTyKEwQzvnB2dr9hcNixm-Mydk23Nf1rXpWKwP7pE4s1fPewFNGbMtpu5cKA4vtdc/s16000/05D273E6-755B-4504-BE00-92744A2EAFAF.jpeg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I was born between 7:04-7:10pm on August 30th, in Washington D.C., at Howard University Hospital. My father helped deliver me, tying my umbilical cord. He was still a medical student at the time, and this was unauthorized; but he refused to leave the delivery room and his professor/dr on duty finally granted permission. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ </div><div>My mother was the Assistant Director at Washington Adventist University. She would pull out the bottom draw of her wooden desk and line it with bedding, and I would sleep there during class. “I never needed a babysitter with you” she would tell me. “Students would come and volunteer to watch you between their classes, and sometimes it would get to where I would have to come looking for you! But you were always in good hands.”</div><div><br /></div><div>My earliest memory is my family living in New York: a three story home with a swing in the attic. I remember a snowy day, walking on a sidewalk with high snow, white moon boots on my feet, and barely able to reach my fathers fingers. I was wearing mittens, and so was I unsure of the security of which he was gripping my hand. I raised my knees high in attempts to waddle trough the snow. </div><div><br /></div><div>I loved flowers as a toddler. I loved them so much that on our daily walks, my mother would stop so I could touch them as we passed, and in efforts to not have me destroy them, my mother would softly coax “gentle, gentle” as I reached for them. I soon came to believe that all flowers were called “gentle”. </div><div><br /></div><div>My parents waited 5 years into their marriage to have me. Much later, I would learn why: less than a year into their marriage a Black man in the south was dragged and lynched: Michael Donald, just 19 years old, was beaten and hung from a tree by the KKK.</div><div><br /></div><div>Often, and certainly in specific neighborhoods, my parents would walk on opposite sides of the street to avoid negative confrontations and/or being followed. In one particular incident, a situation had become violent: “It was a suburban neighborhood, and we had just moved to the area. A car pulled up, and two men jumped out with baseball bats. It was right outside my bosses home, who helped chase them off. It was terrifying. But we weren’t going to stop being who we were.”</div><div><br /></div><div>—-</div><div><br /></div><div>This series originated on <a href="Http://www.instagram.com/amusedblog">my Instagram</a>; to see the series please visit the app. The posts will be cross promoted here, for those who don’t have an Instagram account, or for those who still prefer to read in the blog format. Due to the character limitations of Instagram some of the posts shared here may be longer, or more detailed. </div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-45518741393419059662020-11-12T18:56:00.003-08:002020-11-12T18:56:44.243-08:00Further Reading: Food as an Expression of Cultural Identity <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2l9tVB11kuN3NBF0TzMslrcDGujBMT_6JvhNE4pZl6Wg39eKvTuBB5tHOaO6ww8FjRg0wKNrZYx-aYDsqwLi0ONZSwlAwPvcm2yJYOPKmms38RVBfTk4e6o2QqDlD8Q_KpkezNABi-TQ/s2048/Amusedblog.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2l9tVB11kuN3NBF0TzMslrcDGujBMT_6JvhNE4pZl6Wg39eKvTuBB5tHOaO6ww8FjRg0wKNrZYx-aYDsqwLi0ONZSwlAwPvcm2yJYOPKmms38RVBfTk4e6o2QqDlD8Q_KpkezNABi-TQ/s16000/Amusedblog.JPG" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>In my <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CHg5oHRBVW9/?igshid=u4lnwjoshf5q" target="_blank">recent Instagram Post</a> (sponsored by <a href="https://www.gunbun.com/" target="_blank">Gundlach Bundschu Winery</a>), I share how my friend Jordan tells me about a trip she took last year to Nebraska, where she tried some of her native foods for the first time, one of which was Milkweed Soup. She shared <a href="https://www.edibleomaha.com/online-magazine/harvest-2016/native-traditions/" target="_blank"><b>this blog post</b></a> with me, which tells a story of a local harvest of the milkweed, and the traditions a family has when preparing it.</div><div><br /></div><div>While researching for this post, I learned that food isn't just an expression of ones culture: it <i>is</i> culture. </div><p><b>Further Reading</b>: sometimes it's difficult to work within Instagram's limited word count and I often feel the need to share the amount research that I put into a single post - and I would love to offer up the opportunity for further education for those who are interested. If this is something that you would like to see become a regular support-feature to my Instagram content, please let me know. </p><div>The <a href="https://cimcc.org/" target="_blank"><b>California Indian Museum and Cultural Center</b></a>, in Santa Rosa, CA: though temporarily closed to the public, the site is a great place for resources. </div><div><br /></div><b><a href="http://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.645.8411&rep=rep1&type=pdf" target="_blank">Food and Identity: Food studies, Cultural, and Personal Identity</a>,</b> by Gina M. Almerico. This essay by Almerico argues that " <i>food choices tell stories of families,
migrations, assimilation, resistance, changes over times, and personal as well as group identity</i>". In this paper she asks that we look at food as not just a sustenance of life, and not as an 'epicurean' experience: but rather as a formulation of cultural identity and tradition. In short, "<i>food symbolism permeates our social psyche</i>".<div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://nffc.net/what-we-do/food-sovereignty/" target="_blank">What is Food Sovereignty?</a></b> Learn about the movement, and how it applies to all of us. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://freelymagazine.com/2017/01/07/what-food-tells-us-about-culture/#:~:text=On%20a%20larger%20scale%2C%20food%20is%20an%20important%20part%20of%20culture.&text=It%20also%20operates%20as%20an,they%20move%20to%20new%20places." target="_blank">What Food Tells Us About Culture</a> - </b>Freely Magazine </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.chatelaine.com/living/indigenous-podcasts-hosted-by-women/" target="_blank"><b>9 Great Podcasts by Indigenous Women</b></a> - Chatelaine </div><div><br /></div><div>Again, this isn’t a full blog post, but more of a list of additional reading materials that I feel support my Instagram post, and can give further insight into personal education. Thank you for reading, and I hope it helps in understanding why this month is such an important one! <br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-78620925620875496032020-11-09T18:27:00.007-08:002020-11-13T12:24:30.002-08:00Return to Dry Creek Valley: A Zinfandel Tour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHK9NJWxHqr44GZ9Z91YATSEliRTfrXvvs6hzW5qsopOFJkMiHLy5EIMhqlhyphenhyphenqxOMfAOy5s58Gn0S9o9iQaBJokMjcuL4A62YNqQCu3iRmt3GwjEcaWNn69qPGq8SKJKCvlu1fC6HNkQ/s1024/796BF71D-3C8F-421B-AA24-A1727811F4E9.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHK9NJWxHqr44GZ9Z91YATSEliRTfrXvvs6hzW5qsopOFJkMiHLy5EIMhqlhyphenhyphenqxOMfAOy5s58Gn0S9o9iQaBJokMjcuL4A62YNqQCu3iRmt3GwjEcaWNn69qPGq8SKJKCvlu1fC6HNkQ/s16000/796BF71D-3C8F-421B-AA24-A1727811F4E9.jpeg" /></a></div><p>Driving North up on the 101, I found myself getting emotional - Shaun and I were off to do something that I personally hadn’t participated in since the first weekend of March: wine tasting. Sonoma County has confronted many challenges since that time including two major fires, and the evacuation of Dry Creek Valley.</p>
For me, returning to wine tasting was surreal in another way: just a few weeks earlier I had published a now viral piece of content with KQED: <a href="https://www.kqed.org/arts/13886632/ive-supported-the-wine-industry-for-years-why-wont-it-support-me" target="_blank">I Have Supported the Wine Industry for Years. Why Won’t it Support Me?</a> And, I wasn’t sure how to do this: to step back into wine and hospitality content creation after the article. Had I waited “long enough” to return wine content? And if so...how would I do so in an authentic way? Things were different now, in so many ways. <br />
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The biggest difference is that I have taken a very public and prominent stand for social and racial justice within Sonoma County. I have, along with fellow comrades, organized local protests and used my social media platforms to stand up for Black, Brown, and Indigenous Persons of Color (BIPOC) and LGBTQ+ rights. I have spoken on panels, co-lead marches, die-ins, written articles, co-hosted radio shows, spoken on podcasts and Facebook Live series, and confronted our local Police Chief about our social issues. And, I turned my focus on the wine industry to hold it accountable: because it is black and brown hands that pick the grapes. Sonoma County is a farming country first, and a wine country second.<br />
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So...while driving to our first winery of the day, I found myself asking myself <i>‘is it safe to visit? What does wine tasting look like now?’</i> And, <i>‘how do I do this? How do I move about this space as authentically as I can?’</i> The first answer was: yes. It is safe to visit wineries and wine taste during these times. Wine tasting looks different now: reservations are now required to avoid crowds, tables are evenly distanced apart, hosts wear masks, and disinfect tables between appointments. <br />
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The answer to my second series of questions didn’t come right away. Rather the answer came later, from a BIPOC Assistant Winemaker, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jmedici320/" target="_blank">Justin Trabue</a>: “Ashtin Berry (and <a href="https://www.instyle.com/celebrity/ashtin-berry-sommelier-wine-badass-woman" target="_blank">activist and Sommelier</a>) explains how the erasure of presenting wine as an agricultural product, but rather as a luxury product results in inequality. Exhibiting wine as a luxury good allows for the gatekeeping of wine to continue, rather than providing opportunities”. <br />
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There are several changes in behavior and approach that this industry will need to make if it is to survive and adapt to new and younger generations. One of those changes is to become more approachable. Of the three wineries I visited, I feel that the industry is starting to understand this. There is a humility of knowing that it isn’t just enough to create great wines: the brand has to be approachable, and human too. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4qLIE3veGu7Y_G3ZoNT-kGADeEQ9JDZblQeT7ZkK7lmQ18hicWAtTIUAVsaz-SH6c26Wgav0WsGLtdcRdqYVSp68hWROg68ymAZ95Iz_BZ8Kz0Zz6fG9LMGQXDxXKSSlRqSi6c-diUc/s1024/AA6A49EB-5686-4BA5-A43D-4921CBD7B555.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4qLIE3veGu7Y_G3ZoNT-kGADeEQ9JDZblQeT7ZkK7lmQ18hicWAtTIUAVsaz-SH6c26Wgav0WsGLtdcRdqYVSp68hWROg68ymAZ95Iz_BZ8Kz0Zz6fG9LMGQXDxXKSSlRqSi6c-diUc/s16000/AA6A49EB-5686-4BA5-A43D-4921CBD7B555.jpeg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>
<b>Armida Winery</b><br />
Our first interaction at <a href="http://www.armida.com/" target="_blank">Armida Winery</a> was a smile and a wave: Shaun and I had pulled over to take the introduction shot: a Boomerang Instagram Story to announce to my audience that today I would be working with Zinfandel Advocates and Producers (ZAP) and touring the Dry Creek Valley to taste some amazing Zinfandel wines. We had arrived shortly before opening. A large white truck pulled up, and I scrambled to jump into the car so as to not be in the way. “Oh no no you’re good! I get it! It’s a beautiful shot! Look forward to seeing you real soon.” Brandon, our host and Armida Winemaker later told us that was the owner, Bruce. “He has a way of making every guest feel like they’re old friends.” Brandon has that quality too. <br />
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During our tasting we learned that there are vineyard blocks named after adopted rescue dogs. We learned that what got Brandon into winemaking was his grandfather. Brandon says that Armida Winery produces a lot of covetable fruit due to their unique vineyard locations, and care of the grapes - but that he also recognizes that wine must be approachable. Armida nails that balance: exceptional winemaking, hosting a welcoming atmosphere, and producing very drinkable wines.<br />
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My favorite standout wine from this tasting? Visit my feature on the ZAP Zinfandel Blog: <a href="https://zinfandel.org/safe-and-healthy-dry-creek/" target="_blank">A Safe and Healthy Tour of Dry Creek</a> to read more.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgnttUXfWwA4JZzp05RmpSWc1y1ON511tdtsjAYG87Bx0C3L-Z5vmjdv0uuVGGsjBoA1rK4gDWgxmVnH9HuInUTtyYH_RUBAmXK8l7-rN6QvXe_Dxy67fXspSwKNz3Rse8OH_YuKYI2Q/s1024/9F186075-D6B4-4BF7-8DC7-538637E38EE4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgnttUXfWwA4JZzp05RmpSWc1y1ON511tdtsjAYG87Bx0C3L-Z5vmjdv0uuVGGsjBoA1rK4gDWgxmVnH9HuInUTtyYH_RUBAmXK8l7-rN6QvXe_Dxy67fXspSwKNz3Rse8OH_YuKYI2Q/s16000/9F186075-D6B4-4BF7-8DC7-538637E38EE4.jpeg" /></a></div><div><br /><b>Martinelli Winery</b><br />
Tessa, our host greets us at the entryway with a glass of rosé. She is bubbly and inviting, and even though we’ve just met, I am so happy to see her. Her personality is one that brings you into the fold right away, and already, I simply just want to be her friend. (I will later tell her through Instagram DM that I “could hug her” when she tells me great news. and she kindly reminds me that we are in a pandemic.😅)<br />
<br />
While touring the grounds she introduces us to their Winemaker, Courtney Wagoner. Courtney informs me that she and her team will go through their Zinfandel grape clusters with tweezers in efforts to make sure only the best of the best make it into production. I am intrigued.<br />
<br /><a href="https://www.martinelliwinery.com/">Martinelli Winery</a> was the only winery of our three experiences that served snacks. I understand that there are wine tasting purists who only want wine during a tasting, but...I love cheese and I love crackers, and I have a strong opinion loosely held that the two should be served together at all times. Thank you Martinelli for giving us snacks. I could hug you (but I won’t - pandemic, I know). <br />
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Our wine tasting experience is held on their large stone terrace, one that backs right up to a vineyard block. It’s shaded by oak trees, has a bubbling stream, and is shaded by a pergola with climbing Zinfandel vines. Tessa tells us the story about the Jackass Hill Vineyards and already I find myself wondering how many times it took her telling this story in order to keep a straight face. I know I’d giggle every time - like now. <br />
<br />
Giggles aside, the Martinelli Jackass Hill Vineyard is an unique one - and the only one of its kind. Planted in the 1880’s, it is the steepest vineyard sans retaining wall in all of Sonoma County. (Due to current regulations, there won’t be another one like it, either.) the uniqueness of the wine really shines through too - for my stand out favorite, <a href="https://zinfandel.org/safe-and-healthy-dry-creek/">head here</a>.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUEyK-iXG741GdopFMxUyYPtl99lysIfxjagDz1NEtZEx-ujgc0s5ieNaJC6S98tVQiiLBLy6UMCirsFcX6ZGMjQzhe2YceYFCecirhwZC5Oww4lWNNoQ9IbEHxzm2dYIy5ZIxVArZNc/s1024/11522B23-5244-458F-B10E-2EAD060B48C3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUEyK-iXG741GdopFMxUyYPtl99lysIfxjagDz1NEtZEx-ujgc0s5ieNaJC6S98tVQiiLBLy6UMCirsFcX6ZGMjQzhe2YceYFCecirhwZC5Oww4lWNNoQ9IbEHxzm2dYIy5ZIxVArZNc/s16000/11522B23-5244-458F-B10E-2EAD060B48C3.jpeg" /></a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-ORK8EXrNrJ6qB7NbCt0ThxCN65_EFqwke6ebtN6MkzI6UFjLfL2cVvAk-ii_x8Wn0uCCgM9Hv2dyvWh-jpSs3gD_DUSbHNtqPhlIoYToaO2PVnpGoKM46EPtJjete2ngLBwAWBw6Cc/s944/8EAF9013-D30B-4C2E-B92D-DBE6079D4949.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="630" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-ORK8EXrNrJ6qB7NbCt0ThxCN65_EFqwke6ebtN6MkzI6UFjLfL2cVvAk-ii_x8Wn0uCCgM9Hv2dyvWh-jpSs3gD_DUSbHNtqPhlIoYToaO2PVnpGoKM46EPtJjete2ngLBwAWBw6Cc/s16000/8EAF9013-D30B-4C2E-B92D-DBE6079D4949.jpeg" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7sGW47MTZu0Sdzy7bryKz40xHRg-vQgMwCAoYDXBlGvzi1Dq4cpRDAWW9wLSqdViWkccyHPdaJ4G2Evz_rA3E9s2XbySKZfp8CzCUC5TG1hoQ9bsUsg5jiw023BvuidQ2iAU3JHePZk/s2048/C640D44D-1B62-4A15-8FD7-F7A7E965CA2C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7sGW47MTZu0Sdzy7bryKz40xHRg-vQgMwCAoYDXBlGvzi1Dq4cpRDAWW9wLSqdViWkccyHPdaJ4G2Evz_rA3E9s2XbySKZfp8CzCUC5TG1hoQ9bsUsg5jiw023BvuidQ2iAU3JHePZk/s16000/C640D44D-1B62-4A15-8FD7-F7A7E965CA2C.jpeg" /></a></div><div><br />
<b><div><b>Kokomo Winery</b></div></b>
My friend Victoria accompanies me to this winery - because when it comes to winery visits I must allocate the wine time evenly, as she reminds me. I have never been to <a href="https://www.kokomowines.com/" target="_blank">Kokomo Winery</a>- and I very nearly missed it too: the driveway is on a road curve, and up a hill. It could be easy to miss: so do keep your eyes open!<br />
<br />
We are greeted by my friend and host, Kevin, and Westdale, the resident doggo of Kokomo. Suddenly I am of the opinion that all wineries should have resident pets. We are asked to use the hand sanitizer at the host stand, and all tables are evenly spaced more than 6ft apart. There is plenty of plant foliage, and I admire a fiddle leaf tree: it’s huge, and I really wish I could have one in my home.<br />
<br />
While Kevin starts us off with a pour of 2019 Grenache rosé, and leaves us to settle in, Erik the owner sneaks in and steals us away for a secret tour. “I’m not supposed to do this” he says “but I just wanted you to see these views”. And yes: the views are worth it. As we walk through the vineyards we discuss co-fermentation and how it differs from wine blending. Co-fermentation is just how it sounds: when grapes of various varietals are fermented together, rather than blended after the fermentation process. I personally believe that it is the future of wine making - especially for younger generations. <br />
<br />
Safely returned back to our tasting table, Kevin introduces us to Kokomo’s three Zinfandel wines: to which there is certainly one that will get your attention. The winemaking here is playful and unique, while also remaining true to what one would “expect” from a Zin. There is a Zinfandel for everyone - and yes, my favorite can be found in my <a href="https://zinfandel.org/safe-and-healthy-dry-creek/">ZAP feature</a>.<br />
<br />
Thank you to ZAP for hosting me, and for the writing opportunity!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwwtGDB4pKVRSRnK52Z7DJ9msLHG6lH9Lyr8LIeqHeTPUSqvTjmkz5dmXspAKBQeSTVvXtc0I94RoBhewHoAKxam2Mt82Eq63dt9cPSzYMPxHYpVrawYFoidahwD_U3XN-GwUpD6l0uk/s1024/E8639224-16DD-43DB-B778-29DC4F5D9D74.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="683" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwwtGDB4pKVRSRnK52Z7DJ9msLHG6lH9Lyr8LIeqHeTPUSqvTjmkz5dmXspAKBQeSTVvXtc0I94RoBhewHoAKxam2Mt82Eq63dt9cPSzYMPxHYpVrawYFoidahwD_U3XN-GwUpD6l0uk/s16000/E8639224-16DD-43DB-B778-29DC4F5D9D74.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVOnx2k9fYtFdJFGApl3FhiMo_Kh8bjH5PW8fROo2-tjMyvIcpTBYF89oFw7HFswjcJWcKSeCuLh1FsvVC_CkYoq-q6ZT9z7Rt0Mz6_o_kGSlxjIlMqqMoiyHdLQL4Eh6cHbFzEOLKxQ/s1024/BF5ADE26-10C5-45F3-8C9C-9B87188058D1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="683" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVOnx2k9fYtFdJFGApl3FhiMo_Kh8bjH5PW8fROo2-tjMyvIcpTBYF89oFw7HFswjcJWcKSeCuLh1FsvVC_CkYoq-q6ZT9z7Rt0Mz6_o_kGSlxjIlMqqMoiyHdLQL4Eh6cHbFzEOLKxQ/s16000/BF5ADE26-10C5-45F3-8C9C-9B87188058D1.jpeg" /></a></div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comDry Creek Valley AVA38.61054 -122.873166-12.522910663988341 166.81433400000003 89.743990663988342 -52.560666000000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-3561803333828976642020-08-27T04:00:00.001-07:002020-08-27T04:00:02.262-07:00The Forgotten Post: 9 Lessons Learned from 2014 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhZp7TdGthJPxXi99F81QpBbLBfjH5Dp9AojXFqEZ5Dj6-mxst6Yt8jD_-9PeR7ioh3Qp-3fEVzA13WamFSCRxaCyX2UaqS8fC0O2w8sE2uJ883jdZGzioXdgZFKQ_9t-tf3JY6FBq98/s2048/ian-dooley-FgSyP02I0gw-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhZp7TdGthJPxXi99F81QpBbLBfjH5Dp9AojXFqEZ5Dj6-mxst6Yt8jD_-9PeR7ioh3Qp-3fEVzA13WamFSCRxaCyX2UaqS8fC0O2w8sE2uJ883jdZGzioXdgZFKQ_9t-tf3JY6FBq98/w640-h426/ian-dooley-FgSyP02I0gw-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>On August 13th, at 9:03am, at the crosswalk of 3rd Street and Santa Rosa Avenue, I was struck by a car as a pedestrian. This month marks seven years since that event - yet <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">I will never forget the sound of my body hitting the car, the incredible weightlessness I felt as my body went through the air, and the kindness of the strangers who were there when I woke up in the middle of the road</span>. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>Looking back over these last several years, I cannot believe how how different my life looks today: the isolation that I felt from my accident, the loss of relationships, the very real, very hard mental and physical work that has been required to not only recover from the accident, but to thrive, and create the life I have wanted. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wrote this article in 2014: and while every lesson remains true for me today (although sadly, Eloise is no longer with me), I couldn't publish it all those years ago- it was still too soon. I often try to heal before I am ready; I think if I just force myself to be "okay" that I will eventually will be...which, isn't fair to myself. Healing, processing from a traumatic event, it all takes time. </div><div><br /></div><div>It has been seven years since my accident. Psychology and science both tell us that our lives rotate in a seven-year cycle. Interestingly enough, my accident happened a few days before the end of one of those cycles - and now, it is about to end. I feel that this marks the closing of this chapter for me, and I am so proud of myself for making it through; there have often been times where <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2020/01/we-dont-talk-about-this-mental-health-essay.html" target="_blank">I feared I would not</a>. <br />
<br />Inspired by rediscovering this post, I decided that I would share with you the lessons 2014 has taught me - ones that still very much apply to today❤<br />
<br /><h3 style="text-align: left;">9 Lessons Learned from 2014 </h3></div><div><br />
<b>I cannot control others</b>. This was a big one for me. I've never thought of myself as a controlling person, however the accident took a lot of control away from me in <i>every aspect</i> of my life. It changed the way I showered and dressed myself, it changed my outlook and beliefs, and it challenged all of my personal relationships. I often felt that others couldn't understand what I was experiencing in the aftermath of my accident, and I was right. There was nothing that I could say or do to make them understand, and I had to come to terms with that.<br />
<br />
<b>My cat is not my best friend</b>. Eloise my cat is a wonderful creature. She is incredibly loving and gentle (even when I bathe her). On the worst of my days I would tell myself that I had no need for others, that all I needed was myself and my cat, and I could stay at home and cuddle with my her avoiding crosswalks for the rest of my life. Not true. Life is meant to be lived.<br />
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<b>People have their limits, unless I pay them.</b> I know how cynical this sounds, but I have found it to be incredibly freeing. Friends and loved ones have their limits. I was recovering from a serious physical accident, and I saught a medical professional. The same went for my mental injuries. It is because of my lawyer and 3 specialists that I am where I am today. I am thankful to my friends and loved ones who where there when I needed them, but I would not have made it to the healthy physical and mental state that I am in today without their expertise.<br />
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<b>Be careful with vulnerability</b>. My accident taught me that many will be willing to listen to you; but not all will have your best interest at heart. For a majority of those who asked about my accident, I, and my story was a form of entertainment for them. I was telling a story, and they expected a performance. Not every one deserves to know on this intimate of a level. Be protective with what makes you the most vulnerable. <br />
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<b>Anger kills</b>. I have dealt with a lot of anger over the last 16 months. I have always known that anger was never good for a person to harbor, but I am so grateful to now know that it is in fact dangerous. Anger comes from the loss of control, when anger itself is hard to control. <br />
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<b>People are good</b>. This year has been one of pain and regrowth, but it has also shown me the side of humanity that has left me believing in the beauty of others. For the all many lows that I experienced from feeling like I had been 'let down' by others, I have also had the unexpected joys of experiencing the selflessness of others. Those experiences have had a profound affect on me. <br />
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<b>Everything does not happen for a reason</b>. I would be a masochist if I believed my accident, and everything that followed was 'part of the plan' for my life. Letting go of this belief saved my mental sanity. <br />
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<b>Be gentle.</b> If there is one thing that I repeat to myself on a regular basis, it is to be gentle. For me my accident was both an outward and inward struggle. When the bruises faded, many thought that I was healed. There are so many hurts and struggles and hidden pains that everyone all around us is struggling with. I remind myself to be more gentle than I feel, as most people are struggling with hurts that I cannot see. <br />
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<b>Take risks</b>. This is something that I am still learning. My
accident has made me a very cautious person. Where I once considered
myself serendipitous and carefree, I am now cautious and somewhat
nervous. Life may not always reward us in the ways we hope when we take
risks, but I tell myself that life and its experiences do not reward the
cautious. It rewards those who chase the dawn and dare it to shine a
little brighter each morning.<br />
<br />
</div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-76966157761706730942020-08-26T04:00:00.024-07:002020-08-26T04:00:00.705-07:00When a stream becomes a riptide: trying to make sense of this year so far<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYrYWhrli5_ct2RxX4DHRYkk0Wn5YXN56KKDYswijYbWkyj92PUYYnaSiw03Bb8og_43G4vQk95lFeiOiaqCRBuuF8vmlTR6qlcR2NxkSr_tR-GWmMDEV4A0rJLB7Fj5V1M2SRPmhIeks/s2048/summer_style_amused_blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYrYWhrli5_ct2RxX4DHRYkk0Wn5YXN56KKDYswijYbWkyj92PUYYnaSiw03Bb8og_43G4vQk95lFeiOiaqCRBuuF8vmlTR6qlcR2NxkSr_tR-GWmMDEV4A0rJLB7Fj5V1M2SRPmhIeks/d/summer_style_amused_blog.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Just three days before I was furloughed for nine weeks, I
<a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2020/03/a-letter-to-my-readers.html" target="_blank">wrote a letter</a> asking us all to remember our humanity. And oh, what a surreal
time we have had since: I have watched, while sheltering in place, on my phone,
as lifeless bodies in New York were lifted <a href="https://nypost.com/2020/03/31/nyc-hospital-resumes-use-of-forklift-to-move-bodies-amid-coronavirus/" target="_blank">via forklifts into the back of trucks</a>. I watched on social media the racist attacks on the Asian communities that occurred
because of the coronavirus. And I felt the anger, confusion, and helplessness, while witnessing the murder of George Floyd.</p><p class="MsoNormal">In the months that followed I stepped up to stand and <a href="https://www.sonomamag.com/strong-and-confident-black-women-in-sonoma-county-speak-out/" target="_blank">work alongside in solidarity</a>, and often at the forefront, with the protests that have taken to the streets
across the nation, and the world, and here within our local community for the Black Lives Matter movement. Our world
is not the same place it was, just a few months ago. The United States feels anything
but united, and we have lost over 150,000 souls to COVID-19, in a dizzying
short span of time.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am not the same person I was in March. In the first week
of my furlough, I wish I could tell you what I was going through…but I don’t
remember. Frankly, there was a lot of alcohol consumption. I tried to make it
productive by launching a new series on Instagram that I called “<a href="https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/sipsnskincare/" target="_blank">Sips n’Skincare</a>”. But that was a band-aid – which did what a band-aid is supposed to
do: protect a wound while it heals. What I do remember is wrestling with the
realization that much of my identity and happiness was built around my position
at the company: in the weeks leading up to the furlough I tried to make it as
clear as possible that I would do whatever I could to keep my position – but alas,
the universe had other plans.</p><p class="MsoNormal">In my second or third week of Shelter In Place and furlough, I
finally realized I could venture outside for a daily walk. Then came the
creative outlet of posting to Instagram. Then the pulling away from social
media and an inward reflection of what things in my life truly made me happy:
art, poetry, reading, therapy, learning, fitness, and reconnecting with my
family. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The one thing I did not do was write. Every time that I sat down to try and write out my feelings, I ended up creating lists: how many squats or push-ups I should do that day, or how many TikToks I could create...I wanted so badly to feel productive. More often than not the essays
that I publish here assist me in making sense of the world around me and/or the
experiences that I have had. But I have not been able to process these recent events.
I don’t know where to start. I am aware that I have
learned some powerful, and self-empowering lessons, and I know that I am having a difficult
time verbalizing them. </p><p class="MsoNormal">And, I am fully aware of my privilege when I say this: I am so
fucking thankful for the furlough and SIP (which California is still under). I am thankful because I did not get
sick. I am thankful because without the somewhat extreme isolation, I would not have been able to come into the mental space
that I am now in. I had minimal distractions, and I used that as a time to reconnect
with myself. <span> I think it was that time period of reconnecting that allowed me to step into the Black Lives Matter protests, in the final week of May.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Movements come and go: sometimes they fire up and fizzle out within a span of just a few days, with others lasting several weeks before being filtered out of the news cycle. With the local BLM movement, I have done what I can to research the life arch of a revolutionary movement - and have discovered that there is surprisingly little information out there in regards to this. But what I have been unable to find through research papers, I have learned in the streets: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CByqBviB4AH/" target="_blank">I have learned hard lessons at the marches</a>. I have also made cherished friendships. I have learned about police and federal tactics, and I now intimately understand why "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised".</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Then, on the very cusp of my mental health beginning to crack with the stress of the pandemic, protest organization, marching, relationships, back-to-back heatwaves with no AC, my mail-in ballot request denied, and an ever-growing resentment for the "performance allyship" of local Influencers and brands...fire season in Northern California began a whole two months early, with a dry lightning storm of Biblical proportions. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Within a span of 72 hours, California received nearly 11,000 lightning strikes which ignited fires all across the state - during a record breaking heatwave. As of today, there are currently over 600 fires burning throughout the Golden State. KN95 masks are my standard mask now, as they protect against both poor air quality due to the smoke and ash fall from the fires, and COVID-19. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>I can feel myself barreling towards apathy. I am...so <i>fucking</i> tired. It is a deep, numb type of tiredness. And I know that I could complain about all the things that have been in constant upheaval across the world, but what good would that do? We are all experiencing this in varying degrees. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>I want to change the world - and goddammit I am trying, but it's not changing fast enough. I feel like a drop of water in an ocean - a spec of dust in the universe, and I am wondering if any of our voices are being heard in the void. I find myself missing the days of uncertainty in March - before my entire world was turned on its head. When I stepped into my first protest, I had a panic attack; twice. I kept going - I kept searching for answers: and quickly realized what I had thought to be a a new stream of consciousness, was a riptide of unlearning so many, many things. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I do not know what lies ahead for us. What I know is that I feel uncertain, as perhaps many of us do. And while I feel as though I shouldn't admit this, I will: I miss the old world. I miss my life before the pandemic, and before I learned how to "<a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2020/06/an-essay-on-being-black-bi-racial.html" target="_blank">step into my blackness</a>". I miss the days before masks and ash-fall - I miss the blissful ignorance that I lived in. A part of me aches knowing that I can't ever go back. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The night after my first protest I came home in anger and tears. I wasn't understanding what I had witnessed, and I reached out to a friend. He educated me that day, and helped me to see things through a different, more wider lens. Last week he checked in: "I'm so proud of you. I've been quietly watching from the sidelines, and to see how you've grown...it's been a rewarding experience." </p><p class="MsoNormal">I hope in due time this is how we remember 2020: tough as shit, but lots of growth to help us safely navigate into the future. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Be safe my dears. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Photography: Stephanie Lee</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><br />Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-56285948734210478632020-08-25T04:00:00.001-07:002020-08-25T04:00:03.744-07:00Le Parisian Chic Podcast feature <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDw5c20qOYm69NW7fXA5qyuCZRPR3dO6XIaX-XVIx0Zod2Puh4UnUhYaEjMwfpfDoIDzlwK17WphABF3iS6mXM1kOvi-tSpDlXGH2ucU0RVBETWGnbqd9JUoOd7wRcpHujK7sF-pNtYs/s597/le+parisian+chic+podcast_amber+lucas.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="597" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDw5c20qOYm69NW7fXA5qyuCZRPR3dO6XIaX-XVIx0Zod2Puh4UnUhYaEjMwfpfDoIDzlwK17WphABF3iS6mXM1kOvi-tSpDlXGH2ucU0RVBETWGnbqd9JUoOd7wRcpHujK7sF-pNtYs/d/le+parisian+chic+podcast_amber+lucas.PNG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>When my friend Melissa, founder of Le Parisian Chic asked me if I wanted co-host with her on her <a href="https://anchor.fm/melissa-fleurima-el-jerari/episodes/My-life-matters-eg6lqn">Le Parisian Chic podcast</a>, I was thrilled. "It will be my very first one!" I told her. I have never co-hosted a podcast before, and I so excited to be part of this. </div><div><br /></div><div>Le Parisian Chic Podcast is Melissa Fleurima EL Jerari's exploration and embrace of feminism, love, and French Champagne. Living between Paris, New York, and Morocco, Melissa's outlook on love and life is a joy to hear. On her podcasts she co-hosts with a variety of women, all while imparting wisdom that can only be shared by those who have lived the experiences themselves. Eloquent, hilarious, and sharp-witted, Melissa is a joy to listen to. Be sure to subscribe❤</div><div><br /></div><div>During our co-hosted episode she and I cover a variety of topics, including solo female travel, wine, entrepreneurship, social activism, and so much more. I hope you will give it a listen! </div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-35145434664360819512020-08-24T12:00:00.002-07:002020-09-03T13:07:47.172-07:00An Impending Sense of Doom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fj9gBgJG4PM8o1Z5a2aQHdGsQV8alpHxr_4EhJE_hEgCIFh1mHU_te-N5zdzES9CN1zXtWnGZ6PSiQfIhgr5YJjNJFvpPD7rsR7YKvphr5vETQvhiivlIwKvzfowuH_69vlXRIrJn9w/s2016/Santa+Rosa_Amused_blog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fj9gBgJG4PM8o1Z5a2aQHdGsQV8alpHxr_4EhJE_hEgCIFh1mHU_te-N5zdzES9CN1zXtWnGZ6PSiQfIhgr5YJjNJFvpPD7rsR7YKvphr5vETQvhiivlIwKvzfowuH_69vlXRIrJn9w/d/Santa+Rosa_Amused_blog.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><font face="inherit" style="text-align: left;">I recently found out that a sign that you are about to enter into</font><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">anaphylaxis due to an allergic reaction is</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><font face="inherit" style="text-align: left;">"an impending sense of doom". Which of course given how this year has gone thus far, is quite humorous. How would I pick up on an extra sense of doom? Can "doom" be compounded into Double Doom? Doom to the second power, perhaps? Indeed, if I were to showcase just how dark (for me) my sense of humor has gotten (I blame TikTok), I would suggest that my impending sense of doom has been a constant stream of nerves: fires, evacuations, dry lightning storms, a global pandemic, a nine week furlough, the waiting of over five weeks for unemployment assistance, the Black Lives Matter movement, marching in the streets and dodging cars (<a href="https://www.bohemian.com/northbay/protesters-allege-motorist-tried-to-hit-them/Content?oid=10246249" target="_blank">some narrowly missed</a>), family relationships... </font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><font face="inherit" style="text-align: left;"><br /></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><font face="inherit" style="text-align: left;">Safe to say that this year has been a tropical storm of a constant down-pour of doom, if you will. Or perhaps a sea of doom that has no waves but instead just a very still, very stoic, deep, bottomless sea of just solid...dank dark doom. We could call this sea the Doom-Doom Room - or perhaps that could be the name of the bar that serves up salty cocktails (no Happy Hour, sorry) along side the Sea of Doom.</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><font face="inherit"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="inherit">All this to say that I am very allergic to bees, terrified of needles, and got stung by a wasp mere minutes after arriving to a protest, while also not owning an EpiPen. The </font>immediate<font face="inherit"> fire that spread throughout my kneecap and leg was...<i>intense</i>. I felt my </font>adrenaline<font face="inherit"> spike and my palms go sweaty as I began to panic, but </font><i style="font-family: inherit;">phew, </i><font face="inherit">I was able to determine I was ok. My rapidly developing red welt was certainly making it's complaint known, but no deep, "impending sense of doom" was taking over...and I was breathing fine. I would later learn that what I had was "a large local reaction" which is yes, an allergic response, but not one that could lead to anaphylactic shock (thank goodness). </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="inherit"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="inherit">We're going to survive this, right? The chances of <a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/nasa-asteroid-headed-toward-earth-before-november-election-2020-8" target="_blank">that asteroid that NASA told us</a> about striking our planet one whole day before our presidential election are infinitesimal...right? </font></div></div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comSanta Rosa, CA38.440429 -122.714054810.130195163821156 -157.87030479999999 66.750662836178847 -87.5578048tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-8871326996684534122020-07-22T04:00:00.001-07:002020-07-22T04:00:10.164-07:00The White Answer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Mnxd6Qb7WYUYS9lEpHn7aoyOYBjIhbRJksznA7C2oTMuw8Aa0H1p4HjofjV8PmzO36RSIeq48ywDnXFRjRRgyieEvSX0CvzjfpYnKrsdle2EWmUyTfXHgV05pSNkFSXD5xLqGVnvgUw/s937/2020-07-12+06.06.27+1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="937" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Mnxd6Qb7WYUYS9lEpHn7aoyOYBjIhbRJksznA7C2oTMuw8Aa0H1p4HjofjV8PmzO36RSIeq48ywDnXFRjRRgyieEvSX0CvzjfpYnKrsdle2EWmUyTfXHgV05pSNkFSXD5xLqGVnvgUw/d/2020-07-12+06.06.27+1.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
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Today is an exciting day for me, because this is Terrance Demon''s first major feature here on A Mused Blog. He and I connect several years ago in the bloggersphere, and I have admired his creativity and tenacity in <a href="https://www.instagram.com/terrancejdemons/">visual storytelling</a>. He is a curator of thought-provoking think pieces (see below), a self-taught fashion designer, and someone I am proud to know. Without further ado, I present his piece </i>The White Answer </div><div><div style="text-align: center;">-</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>There’s an unforgettable line from Marion Cotillard in Dark Knight Rises that relates to the current landscape and social order of 2020: “suffering builds character”. It’s a line that’s pretty apt, considering how the facets of moral decay and eventual uprisings provide substance in the film. The ethical similarities that exist between Christopher Nolan’s film and those existing in the real world (BLM and numerous other social injustice movements) have carryover in an often overlooked area in the social space: Influencer marketing. With so many conversations about diversity within this area bubbling over into popular culture, the question still stands as to how we make meaning out of all of the buzz. <br />
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In the latter part of the decade, we’ve seen an abundance of think pieces, listicles, editorial content and a host of other articles highlighting the importance of diversity within this space. Social media is chock full of the stuff - you could get lost reading corporate speak with three part slide posts on Instagram that speak to “finding intrinsic value” in the BIPOC crowd. Hot takes for initiatives on equality are prevalent on the business forefront with sites like Forbes and Imran Ahmed’s Business of Fashion. On Fohr, the NY based <a href="https://www.fohr.co/">Influencer marketing platform</a>, creator/founder James Nord set a new tone in the social space with a push to having “commitment in building a better Fohr” for professionals on all fronts - BIPOC included. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with upstarts declaring change with lofty manifestos and proclamations, it wasn’t until I rejoined the community in 2018 that I noticed a few points of concern. Why was I seeing this big surge of non-POC Influencers suddenly at the forefront of a platform meant for everyone?<br />
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Fohr’s Freshman Class program is one notable example of a great idea with a tepid ending. At its outset, the project launched in 2018 as an initiative to give underrepresented Influencers a voice in the changing and (arguably imbalanced) landscape for Influencers. As of this writing, the Fohr website reads: “<i>Over the last few years, the call for more diversity in the Influencer space has gotten louder and louder, and at Fohr, we want to use our platform as a leader in the space to amplify that message for more diversity and help provide opportunities for underrepresented voices. Fohr Freshman Class is a pilot program that is meant to provide mentorship, access and networking opportunities to Influencers who typically have been excluded by the industry</i>”. The choice of words here is important, but not for the sake of actually delivering on that promise - it’s the irony of how much that program became the complete opposite.<div><br /></div><div>In early June, Valerie Eguavoen of @<a href="https://www.instagram.com/onacurve/">onacurve</a> and @<a href="https://www.youbelongnow.com/">youbelongnow</a> on Instagram, put out <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CBLGNnFlOgj/">an open letter</a> speaking out against the program and had it co-signed by five other Influencers of color. At the heart of their argument, Eguavoen emphasized disparities for compensation and rate negotiation between white and BIPOC Influencers. These discriminatory practices highlighted the failure of the freshman class program and its subsequent iteration with SephoraSquad, which include: the platforms lack of follow-through with fairness/equity for black creators, stonewalling attempts to help POC Influencers earn as much as their white counterparts and vague talk tracks for change that aren’t solution-oriented. Nord has since modified his statements concerning the failure of the program and recommitted to actually fostering change, but the effects of the platform's initial response to this still linger. <br />
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The LA-based Revolve clothing brand too had its own <a href="https://people.com/chica/revolve-fashion-faces-backlash-for-lack-of-diversity-at-influencer-trip/?utm_campaign=peoplemagazine&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_medium=social&xid=socialflow_twitter_peoplemag">snafu</a> with Influencers of color relating to the #RevolveAroundTheWorld campaign. At the beginning of 2018, Revolve was called out by multiple bloggers when an Influencer trip turned into a discussion about the current state of diversity politics. Contrary to the actual state of the blogosphere, the campaign showcased a variety of IG worthy travel snaps but was completely devoid of women with curvier body types. With strides taken to narrow the gap between fair representation of organic, true-to-form positivity and the fashion industry's obsession with heightened idealization of the body, blunt whitewashing of a campaign in this era is tiring. Similar to her open letter directed to Fohr, Eguavoen also chimed in on this, continuing to point out the missteps that brands and agencies have taken in such a volatile socioeconomic and political climate. <br />
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The aforementioned volatility of the political and economic landscape has in itself become a platform that black creatives are using to drive this change. Our conversations of change started before there were egregious social injustices put upon George Floyd or Breonna Taylor. It’s existed before the #BlackLivesMatter movement entered its second wave. Before big houses like Gucci came to the fore with the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/10/fashion/dapper-dan-gucci-partnership.html">tirade</a> surrounding Dapper Dan, or with accusations brought against Prada’s sambo doll <a href="https://www.vox.com/the-goods/2018/12/14/18141320/prada-racist-blackface-imagery-sambo-figurines-charms">imagery</a>. Countless other examples of tone-deafness year after year equate to a continuation of yearning for our voices to be heard and our concerns becoming top of mind for those that pull strings behind the scenes. What would this industry look like if it didn’t have the creativity of our people utilized in just about every aspect?<br />
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It stands to reason that black creatives are tired. Literally and in nearly all other points. Our efforts to pursue expression, equity and transparency in a space that operates to minimize that only fuel our desire to push further. What’s important to remember in the instances that I referenced earlier is that when we talk about true change in the Influencer space, especially those with lasting effect, these wouldn’t just include initiatives that meet expectations. It doesn’t do the community justice when brands and companies engage in performative efforts for “diversity and inclusion” (painted murals in the streets, surface-level, short term broadcasting of inclusionary practices, etc.) - rather, the conversation should turn toward a multi-level, holistic approach that exceeds our expectations and provides meaningful value.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe this means that Fohr could hand the reins over to an all-POC team in re-branding the Freshman class program. Perhaps Revolve might poll its audience and fully realize a campaign wherein diversity means more than color. When we task ourselves with undertaking change, it usually starts with understanding our inner voices. When we ask this of others, we trust that the voices in the room are heard first. What does change in this space look like for you?
</div></div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-18121076927228927732020-07-01T05:00:00.008-07:002020-07-01T13:53:33.430-07:00Closure to Goodbye <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_B_oz4HN-ZelyMP2hqi0MA6Wvw1akCSIGeITX-TabBEC9a5vo0SznReoo2PqHa1WzbSAwXVl2bC0iMRdkOza1poDE9Nx12W9tdOaV5nvpg4YaZrwWTLsCORSLZSt2gfSSWKP2TA7qHNY/s1000/IMG_5971.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_B_oz4HN-ZelyMP2hqi0MA6Wvw1akCSIGeITX-TabBEC9a5vo0SznReoo2PqHa1WzbSAwXVl2bC0iMRdkOza1poDE9Nx12W9tdOaV5nvpg4YaZrwWTLsCORSLZSt2gfSSWKP2TA7qHNY/d/IMG_5971.jpg" /></a></div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Sometimes, I write essays and then hesitate on publishing them - this is one of those essays. Originally written in October-November of last year, I had hoped to be able to publish it after my November court date: but my permanent restraining order request against this person was dragged out all the way until June of this year...I am relieved to say, on June 2nd, 15 months after this whole ordeal began, I was finally granted my request. To read the whole series, please start with <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2019/01/the-relationship-essay.html">The Relationship Essay</a>. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>If you believe yourself, or a loved one to be in a dangerous, or abusive relationship, please see my resource guide <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2016/05/warning-signs-anxiety-essay.html">Warning Signs: How To Identify Toxic and Abusive Relationships</a> (Though originally published in 2016, it is updated regularly.)</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>And now the essay:</i></div><div><br /></div>It is a strange, and perhaps even beautiful thing, when those outside of myself request closure for a relationship that they have followed along with through my essays. To have my own writing quoted back to me because it resonates with you helps me know that perhaps I am not as isolated as I often feel. <br />
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So, I will tell you now: the closure to the relationship explored in my three previous essays does not exist. Ending a relationship is never easy; but it should never end with police, court orders, a month of hiding - of not being able to come into work or drive my vehicle, and now finally, restraining papers. The years of 2018 and 2019 saw so many lines drawn in the sand again and again and <i>again</i>, until finally I found myself in trench so deep it was fit for war. My “closure” will come from a judge, via court order, sometime this afternoon.<br />
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Eventually, closure will come in the sense that time will someday unplug me from the outlet of memory from these events. But the irony is this: time does not heal all wounds. It only fades memories. <br />
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I want so badly to be writing from a different place, emotionally. I want to be able to say “I was in a valley, but I have made it through. I am past this.” Instead, it is the Dry Creek Valley that I am in, speeding down Highway 101 in the triple digits, with the sun setting behind me, and tears streaming down my face. I am tired. I am drained, and at times I feel hollow and lifeless.<br />
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When it comes to abusive relationships, what no one prepares you for is the ache: the complete mind-fuck of missing the intensity of everything. The terror of furious arguments; the heightened anxiety that has you shaking, fearing for your safety - and for me, hiding away, trying to become invisible, to being found and caught - and what eventually lead to a surrender and submission to hopelessness, to passionate reconciliations. How you became accustomed to always being on edge and high alert, or how you began to operate like the hellish existence and complete oppression of free will was the new normal. The emotional bruises that occur...the possession, the heartbreak, and the inner negotiations that take place. <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2020/01/we-dont-talk-about-this-mental-health-essay.html" target="_blank">You start to believe you deserve this</a>. That abuse is in your DNA, and that you’ll never escape it. <br />
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You begin to reason with yourself, telling yourself you’re in control of what happens to you, that you will make things better by ‘<a href="https://pro.psychcentral.com/recovery-expert/2015/10/what-is-trauma-bonding/">starving the bad behavior and rewarding the good</a>’, until a series of events proves that you’re so far gone that when a stranger steps in and hands you a mirror…you realize just how fucked your situation truly is...and you’re left marketing your relationship issues like a new advertising campaign to try and grapple with how you arrived to this strange reality. <br />
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Recovery isn’t a steady climb. It’s full of valleys and canyons...and landslides. Abusers aren’t abusive to everyone, or even all the time, so you question your sanity and logic. Surely it isn’t that bad, right? You try to gain your power back by telling yourself that you’re the dangerous one - you’re the bad bitch under the guise of sweetness. That he’s finally fucked with the wrong woman: that you’re the one that will bring him to his knees. You want your Lifetime Movie Moment. <br />
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But the truth is you can’t make someone repent for sins they refuse to acknowledge. You’re not street-smart enough to outsmart a street rat. Do you want to be? YES. <i>God yes</i> - anything to give you some fucking sense of control and validation. No one prepares you for the fact that you’ll never get it. You simply have to rebuild with what’s left. Another notch in his belt, another “crazy” ex that he’ll destroy online, making people believe the lies that aren’t remotely true. He’ll paint himself as the victim, and you the villain. He’ll use your story for sympathy on the next girl. Under his pouty moody images and memes online his friends will chime “fuck that bitch bro!”. That’s the way it goes. You have to let it go.<br />
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I want to tell you that I no longer believe in love...but that wouldn’t be true. Instead I will tell you that I am ashamed to still believe in it. I am angry about this. Because if I still believe in the possibility of love, it means that I still have the possibility of experiencing this hell all over again - and indeed, in part, I feel that I already have. Is it possible to believe in something, but never act upon it? Can I be agnostic about love in a Gnostic world?<br />
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I do not know if I can forgive this. Truthfully, I couldn't forgive while in the relationship; my resentment for his betrayal is what led to all erasure of him online, and exclusion from all events- a validation I knew he craved. It was a cruel punishment that I felt justified in. Even now, he will always remain nameless, faceless. If hatred is indeed disappointed love, then I must admit: I hated him. In my last essay I <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2019/03/the-goodbye.html">had written</a> that I did not hate him...I see now that I did. I have to find a way to let this go, and to eventually find my closure to goodbye. I have no love left in me for him. What I want is the complete removal of him from my memory. I want no evidence of his existence anywhere near me. <br />
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I find comfort in knowing that eventually, my memories of him will fade. Eventually what once made me cry will become a punchline, a joke. The days that pass without a thought of him will eventually become weeks, months, and years. I’m looking forward to it. I just have to get through court first.
<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Photography: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/sosatography/">Sosatography</a> </div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-50044300595435118992020-06-19T08:15:00.010-07:002020-06-19T09:40:55.258-07:00An Essay on Being Black Bi-racial <p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsebiUIseTUdf98vKQB3gW-q28sC6kz9WFTaEl7MEVxo3QjgOwvLkaz1m6fvPSWZNxW8rSpRI8KcsswQGhXxDlQx5lZR-pHhSyJjkjNovmaJTU5fbDwrp859b3Sh2reGn1SpwzaAz1e8w/s1600/_MG_0023_websize+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsebiUIseTUdf98vKQB3gW-q28sC6kz9WFTaEl7MEVxo3QjgOwvLkaz1m6fvPSWZNxW8rSpRI8KcsswQGhXxDlQx5lZR-pHhSyJjkjNovmaJTU5fbDwrp859b3Sh2reGn1SpwzaAz1e8w/d/_MG_0023_websize+%25281%2529.jpg" title="Black Women of Sonoma County" /></a></div><br />Today is Juneteenth. Up until a couple of years ago, I had never heard the word, or known of the holiday, let alone what the historical significance of it was. Because of recent events, I have been learning more and more, and more...And I had no idea how much I simply didn't know. That’s the thing about ignorance; you’re not aware of it. And now I am questioning how much of my ignorance was a coping mechanism to simply survive the world around me. Perhaps I was willfully ignorant. I have no clue. I am now doing what I can to both pace, and educate myself as much as possible. I do not know how else to phrase this personal era other than, I am "learning how to step into my Blackness". And y'all, it is really fucking overwhelming.<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><font face="inherit">The Black Lives Matter movement isn't just black
or white - because if it is where do I, and my fellow bi-racial people, stand?
In every past relationship I have, regardless of my partners race, been told
how to identify. With every boyfriend of my past I have had to push back
on their attempt to tell me how I should define my existence and how I should
see myself in society, and what my role within it is. "You’re black" they tell me.</font></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><font face="inherit">My father is Haitian. He is a first
generation university graduate, who continued on to medical school, and is at the top
of his professional field. He once scolded me, harshly, for referencing to
myself as African-American. “You’re Haitian” he told me, low and stern. So, to
avoid further reprimands I began to jokingly refer to myself as an “island girl
through and through”: Haiti, Denmark, and Hawai’i (where I grew up) are all
islands; therefore, I was an island girl. <o:p></o:p></font></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span><font face="inherit">My mother doesn’t like it when I simplify my
heritage as ‘Haitian and Danish’. She would want for me to tell you that I am a
multitude of heritages – but, I can barely wrap my mind around what it means to
me to simultaneously be these two identities as it is. And while my father is a praised physician,
he wasn’t the best dad; it was my mostly mother who raised my sister and I.
However to both their credit, my parents sheltered me to a great extent from
racial inequality – and I believe that being raised on the Big Island of Hawai’i
– an incredibly diverse society, played a huge part in that.<o:p></o:p></font></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><font face="inherit"><span style="color: black;">My sheltering doesn’t mean that I was able to
avoid ignorant, hurtful, and racist acts. Before moving to Hawai’i, I attended
Ormondale Elementary, in Portola Valley, CA. I was the only POC in my second
grade classroom. Several of my classmates, including myself were being considered
as models for a new <a href="https://amzn.to/3elctcM">hair-braiding book</a> by Anne Akers Johnson</span>: I was the only one not
chosen for publication. My second grade teacher at the school continuously
tried to fail me in class for “raising my hand too many times” during the
lessons, and when pressed for answers by my mother she responded with “She’s
already been granted access to the school – why can’t she allow other students
a chance to learn?”. </font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><font face="inherit">In Hawai’i in sixth grade, while my friends and I were
exchanging locks of hair (random school trends, am I right?), a girl tossed my
lock of curls away from the desk and laughed: “Eew it looks like pubes!” she cried. Everyone laughed.
Whenever teachers and classmates saw my mother, they would ask if my sister and
I had been adopted, and would ask – “do you both have the same parents?”.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><font face="inherit">In
college I was told I wasn’t “black enough” to belong to the Black Student Association,
even though there were white members too. And, perhaps in the most blatant occurrence,
in 2017 I found out that an (ex)best friend of mine – a woman who was also my
roommate and past coworker, had been rating my attractiveness as a black female among her white male friends: “they all agree that you’re beautiful – but it’s
not an instant beauty…it’s something that becomes stronger the longer they look
at you.” She would also ask questions like “how does it feel to have your hair
be in style?”. <o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><font face="inherit">In my dating life I have struggled with the "exotic" factor: one of my very first relationships was a white man's rebellion against his family: they didn't approve of him dating me, a POC, and he wanted to prove a point. In my last relationship I watched in frustration and disgust as my white, abusive ex adapted his hair styling into "<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=waves+hair+men&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS815US815&oq=waves+hair&aqs=chrome.3.69i57j0l7.4647j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8">waves</a>" and wearing durags to bed (he has since stopped now that the relationship is over). And recently, I have had to struggle with the resentment I have for the exploitation of the black, and BIPOC repression and abuse: so much of it is being presented in a sensationalist way when these are acts of murder and inhumanity - and they are being reduced to a twitter rant, or a Facebook Group of constant bitching by well-meaning allies who show nothing but problems without solutions. </font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><font face="inherit"><span style="color: black;">In the past, I have tried to brush aside the
tone-deaf or blatantly racist comments I have received as something I had
misunderstood, or taken too personally. I have had to break down my own
understanding of the world to come to the uncomfortable realization that it’s
not true: the racism that I have experienced isn’t my fault for “being too
sensitive”. Just a few days ago an Instagram follower DM’d me and
shared that her defense to these types of situations was to try and deflect the
comments before they ever happened by “being cute” in her interactions: that
hit home for me, because that is exactly how I have tried to deflect these
types of situations as well. I have created an entire persona of being “cute” in
efforts to evade ever being considered as threatening, and/or to avoid possible
racist interactions – and also perhaps, in an effort to control how others perceive
me. <font face=""><o:p></o:p></font></span>I have lived my life in a
form of disassociation simply to preserve my sanity.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">I struggle with understanding where I, a
bi-racial woman, fit into the BLM narrative. And the reason I struggle with it is
because yes I am black; but I am not always sure what this means. If someone
were to say to me “Amber you are black” I would agree. I would also respond
with “Yes, I am bi-racial black” because being black is not my only identity. I am also white, because my mother is Danish. All my life there have been others who have been the gatekeepers of my
identity: as a little girl when I would fill out forms and I had to select my
ethnicity box, I would always select “other”. I didn’t fit in anywhere on paper
– and I often feel this way in society too. </font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><font face="inherit">---</font></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><font face="inherit"><span style="color: black;"></span></font></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so, perhaps for the first time in my writing,
I leave you with no questions. I leave you with no conclusions, or answers.
This is exactly where I am at: I am floating, but not without direction. I am
full of questions, but not sure how to effectively formulate them. I hope that
if you have taken the time to read this, you will understand that you aren’t
alone. That regardless of your heritage, skin color, sexual orientation, faith,
or sexual identity, your life matters. Black lives matter. Brown lives matter.
BIPOC life matters! And I will continue on this new path – I will continue to
march, to protest, to fight for you; for </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">us</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. I will continue this fight in
having the uncomfortable conversations, I will make sure my dollars support
black owned businesses, and I will continue to search for ways to support my
BIPOC community. I hope that you, allies, and others will join me. Because I, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">we</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">,
cannot do this alone.</span></p>Thank you to Malia Anderson, of <a href="http://stylebymalia.com/" target="_blank">Style By Malia</a>, for organizing this photoshoot. This was her vision, and I am so proud to be a part of it. I am so proud to be standing among such amazing, strong, proud Black women. I will not forget this day - ever.<p></p><div>Photo: <a href="https://www.lorenhansenphotography.com/" target="_blank">Loren Hansen Photography</a></div>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comSonoma County, CA38.5779555 -122.988831910.267721663821156 -158.14508189999998 66.88818933617884 -87.8325819tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-55724457003121154972020-03-24T11:11:00.001-07:002020-08-24T15:21:34.266-07:00A Letter to You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheT00IKofhmTK0uC9ug0kNlY3eKgSg_sQ0R1nWo2Hj7Xrjmu7l5dF0nrgVlgedkbDWnkZmpe0IF2Jb1DudUjXBZIqu8jdmUgaL3TYm9uw5r9PCRKXYlr2V83yA6y7r9lz6N0axsjgObz8/s1600/amber+lucas-amused-blog.jpg" /></div>
<br />
My dear friend, it has been some time since I have written to you, directly. In the past I have told you about my relationships, my anxiety, and my struggle with mental health.<br />
<br />
These are surreal times. Anxious times. Even now as I type, I find myself holding my breath, because I too am struggling. The employer that I work for has been deemed as a part of the critical infrastructure sector. So for now, I work. My schedule remains the same, and I work each day to do my part in securing the on-going success of the company. During work hours I can distract myself from the outside world, and my inner thoughts. But when I come home...my mind is a field full of landmines of unpredictable worries, and concerns. <br />
<br />
Is it like this for you too? My mother and sister have been sick recently. They do not have COVID-19. There was a window of time where we feared that they did, but aside from a fever, the symptoms are not a match.<br />
<br />
I am scared. I cry at times for no apparent reason. When I speak about current circumstances, I tear up. When I see friends at a distance and cannot embrace them, I tear up. I have heard it said that “the body knows before the mind” and I am doing my best to “listen”. When I begin to cry without a seemingly obvious reason (such as an argument, or physical pain), I have learned that this is my first signal that I am suppressing something. And I have to finally admit that what I am suppressing is fear. <br />
<br />
As human as it may sound, a part of me has believed that I am infinite - or perhaps untouchable would be a better word. Not in a holy, deity-type of way, but in a I have not contemplated my own risk in these unprecedented times. This virus has brought me face-to-face with the surreal reality that everyone that you and I know is touched by this in one way or another. <br />
<br />
I want so badly to write you something heartfelt, beautiful, and encouraging. I want so badly to be eloquent in a time like this. I want to give you a relief from the chaos. And I am frustrated with myself in that I do not know how. <br />
<br />
Instead, I will make a request of us: to remember what makes us human. Fear can do ugly things - it can make us forget our neighbors, coworkers, and friends. I am asking you to see yourself and your loved ones reflected in a strangers face. When there is an “invisible enemy” the fear can be tantamount to times of war, and neighbor turning against neighbor. But that is not who I am, or who we are. We are a community that looks out for one another. We are a community that fights for one another, and takes cautionary steps to keep each other healthy and safe.<i> We are a community</i>. Neither race, nor creed or belief, sexual orientation, or nationality can change this: we are human, and we look out for one another. This is my only request of you, my dear. <br />
<br />
That, and to please hold on. This anxious state of mind will not be forever. <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2016/03/all-floods-go.html" target="_blank">All Floods Go</a>, as they must. We will get through this, together. I promise.<br />
<br />
Photo credit: <span face="" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2737; font-family: "atlas grotesk", atlasgrotesk, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;">Lauren Allaina</span>Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-49122680118975780762020-03-03T04:30:00.001-08:002020-06-19T09:38:47.260-07:00Talking About It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I’m trying to avoid a cliche follow up to my previous essay, <a href="https://www.amusedblog.com/2020/01/we-dont-talk-about-this-mental-health-essay.html">We Don't Talk About This</a>. I don’t want to say “I’m better now!” or, “wow, glad that I made it through that one.” because the truth is, death lingers.<br />
<br />
It is a sneaking awful thought, one that sits on my shoulder like a heavy lead sparrow of death. Sometimes I feel the weight of him, and others I don’t. Sometimes it arrives in an innocent way: little nagging reminders that someday, I will be gone. The sense of urgency - the sense that I'm not doing enough, or accomplishing enough before my "time is up" is crippling. And also <i>incredibly annoying</i>, because sometimes I just want a normal trip to Trader Joe’s, where I am left to contemplate various flavors of yogurt, and not my impending sense of doom. <br />
<br />
I want so much in this life. And, I want when the time comes, to welcome death as an old friend - not as a rebound from the pains of life. I want to be here. I want to hold onto the hope of an unknown tomorrow. I know that life knocks me down - in 2019 it curb stomped me. I have to accept this or I will never move forward. Life knocks me down - but I want to continue to find the will to get back up. <br />
<br />
The heartbreak of this past year has been deep, and layered. The times that I questioned my self worth and my value, gave way to periods of loneliness that had me questioning the ‘need’ to be here. But surely, there is a need. A need to experience the smallest of connections and interactions of what it means to be alive: such as an insect smacking directly into my cheek while buzzing by in a park. (Do you ever wonder where they are going? A social function, perhaps?)<br />
<br />
I am afraid of loneliness. By this I mean I am afraid of not being wanted, needed, or missed. I am afraid of needing others more than they want, or need me. This is what loneliness is to me - to be in a greater place of need than others. <br />
<br />
Still, though it may vary in size from week to week, or even day to day, the desire to experience both the big and small moments of life survives within me. The people in my life today I did not know four years ago. I hold on to that - because if life can change so much in such a short time, surely I must continue, because who knows what life can hold? I try to tell myself that change is neither good nor bad - that change is <i>life</i> and that to experience it is to be alive. <br />
<br />
And that’s what I want: to live, and to be alive.
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
◆◆◆</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If you, or someone you know is struggling with depression or suicide, please don't wait. Reach out to someone who can help. A great place to start is is the <a href="https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/">National Suicide Hotline</a>: 1-800-273-8255. </div>
Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-19061244968244281682020-02-27T05:00:00.000-08:002020-02-27T05:00:08.864-08:00Vegan Makeup Look: Rose Sunset <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzJOQemRGeySZh5O7pR3kVS7FfDq5ygpGZKFZ6dMSj694m83gHCr5OVqofQ1gnzDevwDHeKPpcmxdZMzMATFfaxV12JZEfshQVmlgTfq4zYi12aLzBdQ_qm6jLSjhHaLGk-iA9b1BsO9s/s1600/Spring-Makeup-tutorial_Amused_blog_opt.jpg" /></div>
<br />
I am no makeup artist, by any stretch of the imagination; I can barely apply eyeliner! What I am is a painter. I love to play with color - something that I tended to focus on in art classes, rather than shape or composition.<br />
<br />
When I first started my Etsy shop years ago (to fund this blog), I sold custom headbands. One of my favorite order requests was a large floral headband made of life-like fabric roses: just like the one behind my ear. To create my Rose Sunset look, I used a variety of vegan makeup brands all listed below.<br />
<h3>
The Look: Rose Sunset</h3>
<b>Foundation</b>: E.L.F Flawless Finish (<i>a great foundation that <a href="https://amzn.to/387qW8h">only costs $6</a>!</i>)<br />
<b>Brows</b>: E.L.F Ultra Precise <a href="http://bit.ly/394TxMr">Brow Pencil</a> ($5)<br />
<b>Eye shadow</b>: Revolution Reloaded Palette in Iconic Fever ($7) ( used lower left corner color)<br />
<b>Mascara</b>: Bare Minerals LASHTOPIA™ Mega Volume <a href="http://bit.ly/2v8omRX">Mineral-Based Mascara</a> ($20)<br />
<b>Lip</b>: Charlotte Tilbury K.I.S.S.I.N.G. lipstick in <a href="http://bit.ly/2HZsyGw">Stoned Rose</a> ($34), blended with NYX Retractable Lip Liner in Nude Pink ($5)<br />
<b>Blush</b>: <a href="https://amzn.to/2PtNLMR">Milani Rose Powder Blush</a> in Romantic Rose ($6-8)<br />
<br />
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<br />
Begin by applying your primer and foundation. After applying foundation (I used a cheapo $5 beauty blender), shape and pencil in your brows. I really like the <a href="http://bit.ly/394TxMr">E.L.F. Ultra Precise Brow Pencil </a>because it allows for feather-like strokes, keeping your shape and brow feeling natural while also providing major definition should you want it.<br />
<br />
Moving on to the eyes. I struggle with eye shadow so I aim to keep things as simple as possible. Using a fluffy blending brush I slowly worked an orange-y shade (with warm undertones) across my lid, and up to the base of my brow bone. I kept it soft on the edges - buffing the color out until the edges were perfectly hazy. When applying, bring the orange to the outer corner of the eye, then use a skinny, compact brush, and add the orange shadow to the lower lash line. Buff that out. Then take a mauve-y pink shimmer shadow (with cool undertones) and pat across the center of the lid. I used my finger. Buff the edges to both the inner and outer corners of the eye with a brush.<br />
<br />
For my blush I used a Bare Minerals Seamless Buffing Brush (which also creates stunning clouds for my landscape paintings) working the color down from my temples (where my eye brows come to a tapered point) in a U shape to the apples of my cheeks. Then for good measure I also applied a bit of blush across the bridge of my nose. The <a href="http://bit.ly/2I4JFX7">Milani Rose Blush in <i>Romantic Rose</i></a> is stunning because it has flecks of gold, and a bit of shimmer to it making it multidimensional.<br />
<br />
On my lips I first outlined them with the NYX lip liner, filling in with Charlotte Tilbury's <i>Stoned Rose</i>, and then blending the two together for the perfect shade. The <a href="http://bit.ly/2HZsyGw">K.I.S.S.I.N.G. lip colors</a> are super creamy, and blend beautifully.<br />
<br />
Finally, pile on a hefty dose of <a href="http://bit.ly/2v8omRX">jet black mascara</a> (although I bet this would be beautiful with brown for a softer look) to complete the look.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
♥</div>
<br />
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<br />Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322401695311255434.post-48480211791904434352020-02-25T04:30:00.000-08:002020-02-25T22:15:54.242-08:00When it Does Not Choose Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
“Joe, if you get married before me, will you promise to adopt me so I don’t die alone?”<br />
“<i>Lmfao. What?</i>”<br />
We negotiated: I can live in the guesthouse with a cat that I will train to get along with dogs, while Joe marries for money and lives out his Elizabeth Taylor fantasies.<br />
<br />
On Facebook I declared my commitment to becoming the “cool aunt/godmother” to my friends children: “I won’t be your bridesmaid, but I will bring your children gifts from around the world, get them drunk before I am supposed to, teach them French, and take them on adventures around the world...I’ll be lonely whenever I’m not with you and your growing family, but you’ll have me over for Thanksgiving and I’ll earn my place at the table with wine and storytelling.” The status was a hit, which I can only take to mean, yeah, this is probably the fate that destiny has chosen for me.<br />
<br />
I mean, it sounds snazzy in theory; to live out a more mild (and culturally aware) Samantha Jones existence; carefree, independently wealthy, and answering to no man, or loosing sleep because of him, or hounding for child support, but... <i>but</i>...<br />
<br />
Mama always said I was the type of woman that “men chose to marry, not date”. Growing up I didn’t understand what that meant - and was as equally frustrated by it, because I really <i>really</i> wanted the experience of dating. And now...well, I am of ‘marrying age’ and uh...all the men are married. Just not to me. Instead, I am a cheerleader on the sidelines to other peoples relationships.<br />
<br />
Joe says this is fine. Joe says it’s because I am meant to travel the world and be fabulous and not tied down to a relationship that would probably only hinder me...But truthfully, I feel robbed. Robbed because no one wants the marriages anymore; robbed because I have played the housewife, but have no home or partner. I am a scavenger playing hide and seek with relationships, gathering them up in my basket, knowing that the weave is far too large to hold them.<br />
<br />
The men - some have already been married, and no longer have a real desire to "do it again", or they are so riddled with insecurities that I must coddle or apologize for the success of my career and/or this blog. And they are always, always more than willing to use me as a glue to help piece themselves back together...While bragging to others that I "meet expectations" like a redwood lumber grade, or some type of prepackaged meat in a grocery store refrigerator, but not worthy of their respect.<br />
<br />
I take responsibility for some of my unhappiness; I too have "expectations" - a list of them, actually. It contains things like "someone who will not withhold affection as punishment" and "someone who will not hit me" and "someone who doesn't drink excessively". I have to acknowledge that while I know what I want, I often find myself with a person who barely resembles that. And, when things fall apart, I find myself crying over a relationship that perhaps never should have happened. But the truth is I do not know how to point myself in the right direction. I do not know how to make better choices. When in a relationship and facing criticism, I do my best to adapt to make the other person happy. But what I have learned time and time again, is that never works: I will twist and mold myself into what my partner wants, only to end up resentful when they are not able to do the same for me.<br />
<br />
As a teenager, when I would come home from school and cry to my mother about the boys who didn't like me but dated my best friends instead, she would reassure me: <i>just wait</i>, she'd say. But I have waited. And in my waiting I have found myself inconsolable; I can no longer remember what I am waiting for. And if my own father and mother made mistakes that was I so hellbent on not repeating, and still feel that I have in fact made them...then what does that say?<br />
<br />
In junior high, I used to call and page my father repeatedly until he would call me back. "<i>I'm going to Kona</i>" he'd say, and I would beg for him to take me along. Finally in exhausted agreement, he'd tell me to wait for him along the Māmalahoa Highway - a two-lane road just a stones-throw from my front door. I'd run out to the corner, and wait. And wait. Until eventually I'd return home in tears because I had watched him drive by pretending not to see me as he flew past.<br />
<br />
And the time has come for me to finally acknowledge that love has done the same. I have dressed up for it: attempting to flag it down as it has sped by, pretending not to see me. And so, how can I continue to choose love, when it does not choose me?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Photography: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/sosatography/">Sosatography</a></div>
Amber Lucas A Mused Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13552215994993062068noreply@blogger.com