Hall of Memory

Written for my Personal Movement Scale:

 

Hall of Memory

A dichotomy of choices,

One long corridor with

Many doors, all holding

Various possibilities.

 

Some are light,

Their sereness threatens

To seduce me

With quiet, lulling dreams.

 

Others are dark,

Nightmarish in the extreme.

Hellish doors I dare not

Open.

 

Here I stand

In this Hallowed Place,

Darkness and Light
Fight hard to dominate.

 

Light or Dark?

Each olds its

Own unique

Pleasures and Pains.

 

Heaven or Hell?

Fulfillment or longing?

Nightmares or dreams?

Which will it be?

 

Here, I stand

On a steep precipice

Facing peace from angels

Or destruction by demons.

 

Where do I go?

Left or Right?

Do I choose

Dark or light?

 

I walk an uncertain

Pathway, footsteps echo

Loudly down this

Sacred Hall of Memory.

 

Left or Right?

Darkness or Light?

Which door do I open?

What do I seek?

 

Do I seek at all or

Is the answer more complex?

Do I choose Light or Dark

Or, does IT choose me?

See, I Notice Things

This was a short story inspired one night during finals when one of my best friends and I were working on our final choreography papers. 

            Hello. How’s it going? Have a seat; you’ll be more comfortable. It’s not very often I get visitors and it’s less often that Doctor Breslin approves of them. You must be something special, huh? Yeah I can tell, it’s the way you shape flow. Most’ve the people who actually come to visit me keep ascending through their core and crown of their heads, kinda like a rooster showing off for the ladies. They, the visitors I mean, think they’re self-important. I find them arrogant. But you, you’re different. You’ve got a causal air about you, you descend through the core, make yourself look small and inconspicuous. It’s a good thing, in your field I mean. Makes people like me more comfortable around you.

            Yeah, feel free to take notes, it’s fine. Hell, I’m used to it. Legal pad huh? Isn’t that a little pretentious? I mean, all things considered and your body language, I’d take you more for a composition pad person myself. But, to each his own, right? You know something? If you took out your pen in a spoke like direction, through a central pathway to the pad, you’d save yourself a whole three seconds.  Do you realize that? Well I do. I notice things, small things that other people don’t. Yeah, like the way you move your pen to the paper. You take an arch-like direction down a peripheral pathway and it finally gets to the paper. See, I notice things like that. Things other people miss. That’s why I’m the way I am, because I’m a noticer. I notice what others miss.

            So let me guess. You’re a reporter huh? I’m really surprised Jack—Doctor Breslin, let you see me. He tries to keep me away from the press. Thinks I get too much publicity as it is. And I guess, to some extent, he’s right. After all, my story’s been followed in the news on, what, three continents? Pretty impressive for anyone, especially little old me. Ah! You changed your shape flow; you’re starting to ascend through the crown of the head! You didn’t like what I just said, did you? About my story having a lot of publicity. You didn’t think I’d notice, did you. But I said, I notice things that other people don’t.

            Want a cigarette? You sure? Mind if I partake? Thanks, it somewhat settles the nerves. After all, it’s been a couple of months since I’ve spoken to anyone but Doctor Jack Breslin. Breslin and his pin-shaped posture. His cocky attitude and his overbearing confidence. Sometimes I wish I could kill him. Oh! I’m sorry; I probably shouldn’t have said that to you, given the circumstances. I noticed that you stiffened. I alarmed you and I apologize. But, isn’t that a figure of speech? I’m going to kill you. No, not you, stop stiffening and clenching your jaw like that. It’s not like I have anything to kill you with in here. Again, I’m kidding. Jesus, you’re jumpy. Ok, so I’ll stop with my bad attempts at humor. Like I said, it’s been awhile since I’ve been able to actually communicate with another human being. It’s nice, sometimes just to hear the sound of your own voice and know that someone on the outside is actually listening to what you have to say.

            So, what’s the burning question that you’ve got in your mind right now? Hm? I hope it’s something interesting because if I have to hear one more: “why did you do it,” I might just scream. That’s the trouble with all of you reporters, you’re too blunt and on the nose. You’d never survive as choreographers. You’ve got to be much more subtle in your movement, you’ve got to know just how much to abstract your theme. You can’t be too blatant because then the audience gets bored with your work and you can’t be too abstract if you have a message you want to get across because then it becomes muddied within the movement. Creating a dance is much more difficult then most people think. There are many more nuances to it.

            Oh, I’m sorry. Am I rambling? Well, I do apologize for that. Sometimes I just cannot help myself. After all, it’s been awhile since I’ve spoken to someone besides Jack Breslin. That pompous—what? I’ve already said that? Oh, I do apologize, I do apologize. It’s odd, sometimes, how the brain controls the brain, isn’t it? Right controlling left left controlling right. It’s unusual. And, at the same time, perfectly acceptable and even expected. But now, what was your question?

            Really? You want to know about my choreography? Well you are a true testament to your occupation. You’ve got subtly. You want to draw me in first, give me a comfort zone and then, when I’m least expecting it, pounce for the kill! Oh, I didn’t mean to startle you. Really, you are quite safe. This room was built to hold in people like me, after all. So much plexi-glass and thick mesh that it’s even a challenge to see you properly. But I can still notice things about you, because I notice things that others miss.

            My choreography. Well, it is certainly greatly Cunningham inspired. Especially my use of intricate floor patterns. I do like repetition a lot as well, but I liked repetition with variation, similar to an ABA pattern in poetry. It’s always well justified. Every movement. You can’t have movement within a piece that isn’t justified and I don’t mean intellectually. The movement has to call for it. Movement, you see, justifies movement which inspires art which gives the world a way to justify itself.

            Oh yes, my movement during that incident was quite justified as well. I can tell you the exact pathway I took with the knife, if you so desire. Also, the exact shape of her body as well as mine, just how much our kinespheres were overlapping all sorts of details. But it depends on how badly you want them and if you ask the right questions. But, you have not yet asked the—what? My biggest choreographic influence? Well that is certainly an interesting one. I hadn’t expected this question at all. You are clever, my friend, you are very clever. I could not goad you into—oh yes, well I’d have to say Cunningham to be sure oh and Laban. Mostly Laban because he also observed things that others missed and never thought to look into. How we move for instance. He liked affinities too—action drives I believed he called them. I took a few to heart, I think. My favorite one he invented was slash.

            Oh yes, slash is quite a powerful image. When you slash some it is in quick time, indirect space and—me? Oh yes, I have used slashing quite often in my choreography. Quite, quite often. And in my regular life as well. Did you know that you can slash the jugular vein? No, I doubt you did. Most people think it is really quite difficult but it’s not. All it takes is a strong knowledge of anatomy and a good bases in Laban’s action drives. If you slash and press—another one of his affinities—with just the right amount of force then you’ve got the perfect formula for ensuring exsanguination. Oh, I’m not sure how favorably my poor college professor would look upon that particular application of Laban’s theories, but I’m sure, since my movements were well justified, she would come to overlook the horrors of my actions. After all, I did it for the sake of my art.

            Well yes, I have always been extremely fascinated with the human body, both the interior and the exterior. I’ve always been fascinated with energy as well. The body consumes a great deal of it you know, at lot of ATP goes into the most mundane of our actions. Yes, seriously. Even blinking uses up great pools of energy so can you imagine the amount of energy it takes to make the heart pump blood? Or to actually bleed? Can you imagine the amount of energy it takes to fully and skillfully execute challenging choreography? I bet you cannot fathom it. Well yes, a lot is the generic answer, but I wanted to go deeper. I wanted to challenge my choreographical intent. After all, Laban went into the fields and worked side by side with workers to get a sense of how they moved. I wanted to do that same thing. I wanted to get a sense of how the body works from the inside out. That was the point of my piece, you see. The body, the energy the movement. The very act of convulsing, life, on stage. Can you imagine the power—the very energy—that would radiate from that instance. The audience would be riveted—it would be one of the most scintillating performances of the entire season!

            Well, I would hardly call it a success. I’m here aren’t I, instead of accepting awards and accolades for my triumph? Do you know what the real problem is? Do you? Hm? The fact that I notice things other people miss. I notice the beauty of the body, the beauty of its movement and even the beauty of its total stillness in death. Now, imagine the beauty of the body moving, then in a justified manner, the beauty of that same body slipping into the sleep from which no one ever wakes. It would be a masterpiece, the mind would just be overloaded with the splendor of it. But the critics, the audience, the police, even your media, none of them could comprehend that splendor. And, instead of praising me for my innovativeness, they locked me away in here, to rot with the other insane inmates. I’m not insane, I’m nothing like these people in here. I have visions! I have dreams! I have a career! And I have an eye for noticing things other people miss. I have an eye for capturing art. Come closer to me and I’ll capture your beauty in my art.

Dancing Through Life

This is a work in progress that has highlighted all the high points I could think of in my life today. 

The cold bricks

The colorful rug

Light blue dress

Black backpack over

Thin shoulders.

Warm hand clutching

Smaller, sweaty one.

Tears glisten in Mama’s eyes,

A new chapter of life begins.

 

Black checkered pants,

Red long sleeved shirt,

Shiny black shoes

Reflect peoples’ faces.

Microphone seems big,

Held in a tiny hand.

A book held, young eyes

Scan the text. Words

She had written sound big

From such a small voice.

Mama tries not to cry.

Her baby grew up a little.

 

Dogs bark, fur flying,

Puppies running all about.

Eyes shine bright, warm

Fur against soft skin.

Two hearts beat together in

Excitement.

Mama smiles.

First responsibility occurs.

 

Hands warm hands.

Popcorn smells heavenly,

Mixed with fresh scent

Of cologne. Hands shake,

Brush against each other,

Popcorn flies.

End credits roll,

Nervous hugs goodnight.

Mama smiles, first group

Date. Little girl out

With little boy.

 

Sore muscles, sweat

Pours off skin.
Dirty, muddy shoes and

Clothes.

Boys and girls.

Colonge mixed with

Mud and sweat.

Bodies nervously sway

To music.
Eyes lock,

Music swells.

Love for the first time

Found at camp dance?

 

I like you…I like like you…

I like like you too.

So…want to be my girlfriend?

Sure!

Mama laughs. Her daughter’s

In a “relationship.”
Gowns itch,

The start whiteness of

The robe, a huge contrast

To the maroon sash.

Names are called, nervous

Legs carry a nervous girl to

The stage.
Mama smiles and cries.

Her daughter “graduated”

From middle school with honors.

 

Itchy, grey kilt.

Grey socks slide down

From knees.

Shiny black shoes,

White polo shirt.

Heart pounds in chest,

New faces swarm around,

All the girls are nervous.

How will high school be?

 

Simple dress,

Blonde hair down

And pretty.

Principal, Sister Suzanne,

Speaks, words jumble together.

The coveted ‘L’ pin.

The recipient’s name is

Called.

Ears roar from applause.

Knees nearly give way from

Newborn calf unsteadiness

Heading to the stage.

Mama cries, her freshman won.

 

Snow white suit,

Matching white boots.

Blond hair down, glasses on.

Long, nimble fingers

Caress the ivory keys,

Tickling out strands of

Bach.

New class ring glints

In the light.

Mama smiles.

Her baby’s playing brings

Tears to her eyes.

Her baby’s now an

Upper classman.

 

Actors and actresses

Backstage, different world.

A dressing room, plain in everyway

except inside there’s a star.

Speechless—her favorite actor.

Mama laughs at the retelling.

 

Doorbell rings

Skateboard in hand,

Young boy at door.

“Hey.”

Mama smiles, her baby’s first

Date.

 

Hard work paid off.

Honors night again.

Another dress,

Another cold chair.

NHS inductions.

Names are called.

Legs approach the stage,

A delirious grin on face.

Mama smiles and is

So proud.

 

Check in hand,

Microphone is there.

Heart pounds

A nervous tattoo against ribs.

Too jumpy to eat,

Stomach rolls about.

Time to speak.

Voice slightly shaky,

Hands rigidly at sides.

Check handed over,

A warm embrace, tears

Are shining in eyes.

Two unlikely friends,

Helping each other.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t cry.”

A charity is helped.

 

Long white gown,

A simple red rose.

High heels sink into grass.

Hands shake.

A poem is read, in a less then

Steady voice. The words

Blur together through tears,

But the voice continues.

Mama tries to hold back

Tears but can’t

A new chapter in

Her baby’s life—a

Closing and an opening—

High school graduation. 

 

Car packed, no free space

To sit. Wheels strain

Against the weight.

Heavy lifting, cursing,

Laughing. Gentle humor

Exchanged, overriding

The veritable avalanche of

Emotion bubbling below

The surface.

Mama tries not to cry,

Her girl’s happy but she’s slightly

Sad. Four years of college.

Another new chapter of life begins.

 

Heat. Whiskers scraping,

Heated skin, hands shaking

As they caress each other.

Teeth and tongue exploring.

Mama doesn’t need to know

About this first make-out session

In the car.

 

Anger, frustration,

Voice yelling, tears

Threatening to spill.

Fevers racing, embarrassment

Fills the soul.

Trying to keep mouth shut.

Later, sound design gets done

And awarded.

“You did it.” First kind word

from her. A glimmer of

Pride starts to grow.

 

“I love you.”

“I love you too my love.”

Soft words spoken in a

Cab in a foreign place.

Time stops, lips brush together.

Later, bodies entwine,

Swaying and dancing to

Primitive rhythms.

Love, bliss, Heaven.

 

“I’m very proud of you my dear,”

A hero says. A success,

A rare time in a life.

A warm embrace hides a

Delirious grin. Mama

Smiles too, she’s also proud

Of her baby’s achievement in

Choreographing a scene.

 

Love grows, love dies

Much like the winter snow.

Bliss grows old,

People change.

Pain, distrust,

A God becomes a mortal,

A man a devil.

The end looms,

A chapter longs to close.

 

A ball of fur,

A coal black nose,

Wet pink tongue.

So many hopes pinned

On you. Will you, little pup,

Succeed?

 

Crash and burn

Emotional slide

Fabric of life rips.

One becomes two.

Mama cries too

But is there to pick of the

Pieces. Her baby will

Find a better man.

 

Muscles straining,

Tempers flair.

Choreography is shit.

Mama listens and nods,

Understandingly. “You’ll

Figure it out.”

 

Lights, yellow, orange red

Shine on sweat slicked

Dancers.

Heart thumps in choreographer’s

Chest, keeping rhythm with the

Moving feet. The final

Pose is hit.

Whispering amongst the

Classmates, the director, the

hero. Affirmations are

Heard. She nods but says

Nothing.

Tech drags on. Lights dim,

A blue backpack slung

Over a well-formed shoulder.

A hero exits, but suddenly

Reenters.

Soft hand land on shoulder,

Faces turn toward each other.

The hero smiles.

“Good work, very good work.”

She’s gone before a response

Can be formulated.

Mama will be so proud.

 

Red lights blaze,

Blinding all.

Heart races,

But not from the dance.

A lift, well executed—

There! In the audience,

She’s crying…a hero is crying.

The dance is finished—no knowledge of

How. The show’s over.

Faces blur from behind tears.

A hand, soft and gentle—

“I read what you wrote.

I’m so touched. Thank you.”

A smile forms, a quick embrace.

Mama knows her baby’s hero is proud

And so is she.

 

Behind the make-up,

The drunken laugher,

Trepidation runs wild.

The cowardly lion was

A smart choice. Courage

Is needed to get through this.

She gets up, a woman whom

Is idolized. Two sets of brown

Eyes meet across a filled theatre.

“Kelley is a competitive ballroom

Dancer,” she begins, “But she’s

Never been competitive here.”

Tears blur, make-up runs.

The hero has spoken. “I’ll

Leave you with a final affirmation”

But the ears don’t hear. They’re too

Filled by the pounding pulse.

The hero is finally proud.

 

 

Formal dress pants,

A white shirt,

Hot beneath the heavy

Black academic robe.

The mortarboard is awkward—

Tilting and falling.

Mama fusses till the last

Moment.

Names are called,

Heels pound against the stage.

Diploma is hard against the skin.

Mama has never been more proud—

Her baby graduated college.

Fear

This was written before a ballroom dance competition after I received hours of help from my hero. These were my fears of not doing well. 

Already I’m imagining
The hardwood floor,
Vibrating gently, beneath
My heeled feet.
The swelling rhythms
Already reach my ears,
My brain computing
And turning them into
The appropriate
Time signatures.
The dress is
Heavy on my shoulders,
Each individual stone,
Garish in the lights.

My heart pounds
But not in anticipation.
No.
It pounds in fear.
How can I return
To Drew and face you
If I do not do well?
How disappointed will you
Be after helping me
So much?
I’m tense just thinking
About such a situation.
The screaming of my coach,

The angry silence of
His fiancee are nothing,
Compaired to seeing
Disappointment flicker
In your dark eyes.
You will hide it well,
But I’ll know it’s there.
You’ll smile encouragingly
And, out of sheer politeness,
Ask for details.
But your thoughts will be
Far away, your heart confirming
What you’ve known all along:
I’m hopeless.

I don’t want you
To think that of me.
I strive desperately
For some acknowledgement,
Some priase from you.
If I fail at this,
I’ll never hear your praise.
I want, so desperately,
For you to be proud of me.
It’s a hunger that cannot be controlled.

It’s Hard to Hear Pride

This came about during tech for my choreography piece. 

It’s Hard to Hear Pride

 

Lights: yellow, orange and red

Shine on sweat slicked dancers.

Breathing is quick and shallow,

Hearts and pulses pounding.

None pound as hard and quick

As mine.

 

 

Music blares from the speakers,

A Latin flavor, but the thump

And rush of my pulse drown out

Its beat.

My eyes are transfixed, glued

To the swaying, stretching bodies.

 

Whispering is heard, soft and gentle,

To my right. It makes my

Poor heart beat a nervous tattoo against my ribs.

They are there, watching every move

My dancers make,

The judge, jury and executioner.

 

My classmates are animated

As they watch, their whispers

Increase in dynamic and volume.

She sits there, Sphinx-like and silent,

Legs crossed, foot bobbing absently

To the Latin rhythms.

 

I try to ignore them, ignore her.

My mouth is dry, breathing and throat

Constricted, hard to breathe and swallow.

My hero, flanked by my fellow classmates,

Silently watching, critiquing and analyzing

My hard work, my brainchild.

 

The final pose is hit, bam!

The music fades, followed by the lights.

Darkness and silence fill the theatre.

The houselights rise, my dancers

Bow and exit. I am left alone,

My soul naked before the gods.

 

 

I feel as though my heart can be

Heard by them all. My work the carcass

Upon which the vultures and hyenas will prey.

I am in Purgatory, awaiting my fate.

Will I find glory in Heaven

Or will I suffer the pains of Hell?

 

The silence stretches, a whisper is heard.

She starts to motion towards me,

Frantic gestures, a language only those

Around her can understand. I realize she

Means for one of the others to speak.

I swallow hard and wonder what will be said.

 

 

“Is this the same piece?” One of them asks.

“It looks so different from Thursday.”

A pause, a beat, my breath hitches.

There’s more they want to say

And I’m in limbo.

When and if will the ax fall?

 

“It’s so sharp and clean.”

“Much more dynamic.”

“I’m impressed by

The work you did.”

“Yeah, good job.”

Affirmations. I can breath for a moment.

 

My eyes, seemingly on their own accord

Drift to her with the Sphinx-like visage.

Her face is still and impassive, her foot

Still bobbing to a rhythm that is all her own.

“Cheryl, what do you think? Is it better?”

 

My voice shakes a bit, breaking

My desire for sangfroid. I fight,

Internally, of course, not wanting

To show how much I value and need her opinion.

I stare at her, and two pairs of brown eyes meet,

One set pleading, the other masked.

 

 

An eternity stretches, the theatre

Is completely silent and still.

My hands tremble, my breathing labored.

Answer me, please!

Then, when my body is as taught as a bowstring

And my nerves all on edge,

 

 

I see it!

A faint bob of her head,

A twitch of a smile.

For a moment, the mask lifts

And the eyes twinkle.

Then, just as quickly, the mask is replaced.

 

“Next piece,” she says,

Her voice not reflecting any

Emotion.

I let out the pent up breath

I didn’t realize I was holding.
It’s okay, I’m okay, everything’s okay.

 

Tech continues, long and arduous,

I sit in my seat, wondering on the smile

And it’s brevity.

I ponder the slight mirth in the eyes.

I realize I hardly know more about

Her reaction to my piece then I did before.

 

This knowledge gnaws at me.

I bite my inner lip, wondering

How I can approach her, how

I can ask for her honest opinion.

Options come to me,

But I reject them all.

 

Suddenly she rises

With her dancers

And together, in a fluid

Unified way, they exit the theatre,

Probably to work on her piece.

 

I am left with a handful of

Choreographers to watch

And comment on tech.

My mind is spinning,

My piece replaying itself constantly.

Did it not improve at all?

 

The doors reopen, but I don’t turn.

I am too lost in thought,

Contemplating my own work,

Wondering about its flaws.

Shuffling feet move towards me,

Something soft and light touches my shoulder.

 

I am taken out of my reverie,

Register it’s a hand and look up.

The first thing I see is the blue

Backpack slung over one of her

Shoulders, open and hanging off in a

Precarious position.

 

She is stooped over so our faces

Are level. I want to jump up

And run.

I want to leave,

Hide or disappear.

The moment of judgment has arrived.

 

Our eyes lock, hers are filled with—

I can’t believe it!

I don’t want to believe it!

But it’s there, in those brown orbs,

A glimmer of one of the sweetest emotions—

A glimmer of pride.

 

 

I swallow but can’t find words to speak.

My own language has deserted me.

I can only sit and stare.

“Good work,” she whispers, smiling and

Squeezing my shoulder ever so slightly.

“Very good work.”

 

 

And then she is gone,

left to finish her own choreography,

Leaving me seated in complete disbelief.

The tension suddenly leaves my body

And I go limp,

Throwing my head over the back of the chair.

 

 

I can breathe again

And I find myself sighing in relief.

My pulse beats fast, not out

Nerves this time but out of surprise.

My hero is proud of me

And, at that moment, nothing else matters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cravings

I guess I was wondering what I desire most right now… 

A troubled soul

Searches for what

It does not possess.

 

A dreamer

Longs for an

Ideal world.

 

An artist

Seeks

Eternal beauty.

 

A writer

Hopes to

Inspire with words.

 

A poet

Desires most

To feel.

 

An outcast

Hungers to

Belong.

 

A romantic

Prays for

Love.

 

And me?

I crave

Recognition.

 

But, I do

Not wish for

Fame.

That is but a mere

Illusion.

 

I do not

Long for money.

That is but a

Superficial end.

 

I do notLong for beauty.

That is but

An individual opinion.

 

I do long

For acknowledgement.

A simple expression

That, of my work,

You are proud. 

Pain

 I’ve been sick for several days. Perhaps that’s why this morbid poem sprung forth from my subconscious. 

Pain.

It blinds me,

Rips my soul,

Tares at my being

Like a clawing tiger.

Agonizing fire

Burns through

My armor

Leaving meNaked

And vulnerable.

 

Its heat stabs me,

Sinking through

My flesh, searing it.

Howling in agony

That no one hears.

This pain is mine

Alone to bear. 

Fucked Up

This poem was written on March 5, 2007 in my theatre tech class. This was written after a really bad date and one of my closest friends revealed to me that he might be HIV+.

Fucked Up
Can things get much worse?
Am I doomed to live a curse?
Good friend could be dying,
Guy I’m dating, left me crying.
Totally out of it,
Why’s my life gone to shit?
Dance is my only release
And for today, that must cease.
I just want to go to sleep,
One that is dreamless and deep.

Untitled

This untitled poem was written on March 6, 2007. I had a severe case of bronchitis and dragged myself to my Modern Dance class. These were the rather morbid thoughts of a fevered brain.

Even music can’t
Sustain me.
The swelling rhythms
Can’t keep me awake.
I long for sleep
But none ever comes.
I must force myself
Forever onward.
Sleep, right now,
Is my only goal.

Those Were the Days My Friends, We Thought They’d Never End…

I was just online with one of my best friends and, for some odd reason, we were discussing the 1990′s, specifically the cartoons and shows we used to watch. Suddenly, I was thrust back to a simpler time where we had cartoon blocks on Saturday mornings, when after school, my friends and I would run home to turn on Nickelodeon and watch: Hey! Arnold, The Angry Beavers, Salute Your Shorts, Hey Dude and many others. A time when I used to set up obsticle courses in my living room and on my mom’s sofa because I wished I was on Wild and Crazy Kids, Double Dare, and What Would You Do. When my best childhood friend and I used to roll around in garbage cans pretending we were Mario and Lugi from the ORIGINAL Nintendo game system. When, on Sundays, I used to go roller blading with my friends but had to be in by six for dinner and then to watch “The Adventures of Pete and Pete.” When a bunch of us used to pretend we were Power Rangers and fight the invisible grey things. It was a time when the world was not in chaos and everything was relatively simple.

So I surfed the Net and found a list. I’ve added to it. I hope this brings a smile to someone’s face and remember the 1990′s!

Heres to the 90s! *raises glass*

You know you’re a 90′s kid when:

Theres a monster under your bed and the only person who can save you is Quailman

You’ve ever ended a sentence with the word “PSYCHE!”

You just cant resist finishing this… “Iiiiiiin west philladelphia born and raised…”

You remember TGIF on ABC: Step by Step, Family Matters, Dinosaurs, and Boy Meets World.

You remember the Saturday morning cartoons like: Recess, Pepperanne and the Sunday morning cartoons on Nick: Angry Beavers, Ahhhh Real Monsters

“Miss Susie had a steam boat…”

You remember when Kurt Cobain, 2Pac, River Phoenix, and Selena died.

You know that “WOAH” comes from Joey from “Blossom” and that “How Rude!” comes from Stephanie from “Full House”

You remember when it was actually worth getting up early on the weekend to watch cartoons.

You got super excited when it was Oregon Trail day in computer class at school.

You remember reading and watching “Goosebumps”

You took plastic cartoon lunch boxes to school.

You danced to “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls

For girls: You and your friends dressed up and sang along to the Spice Girls songs because you WERE the Spice Girls. One of you actually had the Spice Girls dolls.

You remember the craze, then the banning of slap bracelets and slam books.

You remember collecting, playing and trading Pokemon cards.

You still get the urge to say “NOT” after (almost) every sentence…Not…

You used to listen to the radio all day long just to record “Your FAVORITE song of ALL time”

Where in the world is Carmen San Diego? was both a game and a TV game show.

Captain Planet, he’s our hero.

You knew that Kimberly, the pink ranger, and Tommy, the green Ranger were meant to be together.

When playing power rangers with friends you fought over who got to be who…………and still all ended up being Tommy.

You remember when super nintendo’s became popular.

You always wanted to send in a tape to America’s Funniest Home Videos… but never taped anything funny.

You remember watching home alone 1, 2 , and 3……..and tried to pull the pranks on “intruders”

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”

When you have played and beaten mario brothers/duck hunt.

If you ever watch “Cheers!”

You remember going to the skating rink before there were inline skates

When there were inline skates, you used to beg your mom to load the car and take you and your friends to said skating rinks and she would. And then she’d stand there for like three hours while you and your friends skated around to a dark rink that was lit by disco balls and colored lights and played Spice Girls.

You remember when every thing was “da BOMB”

When they made the new lunchables so that you could make tacos, nachos and pizza!!

You remember boom boxes vs. cd players

Writing M.A.S.H. notes. (and the twenty different versions of that) and then having your best friend threaten to show your crush who you were going to marry because those notes really did predict the future

When you broke the tabs off the soda cans while saying the alaphabet. Then, when it broke off, whatever letter that was, you were going to marry someone with that name.

Making those little fortune cookie things and then have your friends predict your life with them.

You remember New Kids on The Block when they were cool

And You Were Obsessed with either ‘Nsync or Backstreet Boys. But never NEVER both.

You knew all the characters names and their life stories on “Saved By The Bell”

You played and/or collected “Pogs”

You had at least one Tamagotchi, GigaPet or Nano and brought it everywhere

You haven’t always had a computer, and it was cool to have the internet.

You watched the original Care Bears, My Little Pony, and Ninja Turtles

Yikes pencils and erasers were the stuff!

All your school supplies were “Lisa Frank” brand.(pencils.notebooks.binders.etc.)

You remember when the new Beanie Babies, Furbies and Tickle Me Elmo were always sold out.

You collected those Beanie Babies.

You used to wear those stick on earings, not only on your ears, but at the corners of your eyes.

You remember a time before the WB.

You owned a portable tape player.

If you even know what an original walkman is.

You remember wanting to sit on the orange Nickelodeon couch.

You thought you were so cool when your mom actually let you stay up for “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”

You’ve gotten creeped out by “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”

You know the Macarena by heart.

“Talk to the hand” and the “W” with your fingers while shouting “Whatever!”

You always said, “Then why don’t you marry it!”

You went to McD’s to play in the playplace.

You remember playing on merry go rounds…at the play ground.

You remember dreaming to be on a Nickelodeon game show: Double Dare, Nick Arcade, GUTS, Legends of the Hidden Temple, Fun House, Figure It Out, What Would You Do and many others

You watched Hey Dude, and Salute Your Shorts…You could also sing the theme song to both

Remember “You Can’t Do That On Television,” where getting slimed first started!

You remember the Nickeloden Magazine

You wrote a letter to Stick Stickly and hoped he’d answer it and play your show on Nick with Stick

Who Loves Orange Soda? Kel Loves Orange Soda.. Is it true? I doo I doo I doooo 00000000000

When we were younger:

Before the www. frenzy…

Before the Internet and text messaging…

Before Sidekicks and iPods…

Before MIKE JONES…

Before PlayStation2 or X-BOX…

…Back when you put off the 5 hours of homework you had every night to play with your friends and watch TV.

When light up sneakers were cool.

When you rented VHS tapes, not DVDs.

When gas was $0.95 a gallon and Caller ID was a new thing.

When we recorded stuff on VCRs and paid $3.50 for a movie.

When we called the radio station to request songs to hear off our walkmans.

When 2Pac and Biggie where alive.

When the Chicago Bulls were the best team ever.

Way back…

when it was all about N64.

Before we realized all this would eventually disappear

Who would have thought you’d miss the 90′s so much!!!!!

*Raises Glass Again*