Anne Marie Goodrich recalls how she started with her favorite online username. "Back In the web olden days, I fired up my 14.4 modem, installed my America Online disk and immediately got asked for a user name. I paced in my office for a few minutes brainstorming about my name, my work as a graphic artist, than mused about fine artists. That thought led me to VanGogh which immediately morphed to AnneGogh my head. So voila! I haven’t tried percolating another name since."
As a busy designer, I’ve been a neglectful blogger of late, though I occasionally share thought about my spiritual journey at my Falling Awake blog.
*Now for the Make Believe Part*
What did you always want to be when you grew up as a kid? Why?
For many years I wanted to be an actress. I think the intoxicating smell of greasepaint was a hereditary thing; my father was involved in acting when he was young. As a shy little girl, I found magic in the fact that I could transform myself and become another person on stage. I found that the ultimate make-believe – trying to immerse myself so much into another character that I actually found make-believe blurring with reality.
What is your favorite fairy tale and why?
I think I’d have to select Cinderella – I wonder how many others would choose the same? I think its appeal has to do with the fact that hope is the centerpiece of the story. There are many people in the world who have battled figurative “evil stepmothers”, or found themselves imprisoned in a world that drained the marrow out of their life-bones. We want to believe there is an entity – God? A fairy Godmother? – who is watching over us, loving us, and will someday appear and work miracles by letting us know we are cared for and not forgotten. When Cinderella shows up at the ball in all her splendor I think it’s a reminder that we all carry inside us a rare beauty and uniqueness that sometimes remains hidden. That’s why the prince plays such an important role, perhaps. Each of us yearns to encounter another human being in life who sees us as someone beautiful and wonderful beyond compare. And that’s as far as my metaphorical brain has taken me with Cinderella. Now I’m going to have to pour another cup of coffee and muse over the symbolism of the glass slipper.
It is the night of the big ball. The one you are destined to marry is among the crowd, so you’ve dressed your best. Describe your outfit.
I love the iridescent colors in my gown that change colors when I spin around in a circle. I wasn’t sure if adding fairy dust was a little too much, but a light sprinkle seems to be a nice enhancement. Lovely how fairy dust twinkles intermittently, as though the stars have tumbled down to earth and affixed themselves to this billowing skirt I wear. I like my choice in tiara too. The multi-colored jewels encrusted in the crown complement the iridescent dress I’m wearing. The sparkling effect of sapphires, rubies, tourmalines, opals, diamonds and emeralds altogether is just so dazzling! I think if the moon was not out tonight, I could still be a glittering beacon for seafaring ships seeking safe haven.
Your life has been selected to be featured in an upcoming fairy tale style movie. What is the title and premise?
Watercolor Isle is the story of a young girl who lived her life in a black and white world, somehow knowing deep within that there was more – catching glimpses of chalk drawings hidden behind heavy drapes, finding a red lipstick that had rolled out from a long-forgotten purse. Her glimpses of this fully-hued life she encounters leads her on a quest to find a land she’s heard whispers about – a land full of color and tints and shades. Little did she know there would be a Large Grey Monster to contend with along the way.
You need to be rescued. Where are you and what is going on around you? Describe the scene as your hero approaches.
The people are all so old and so sick, and there are so many of them. Tucked under sheets as thin as gauze, they shiver; all of them warehoused and forgotten by a modern world. The bare-planked floor creaks as I make my way, wrapping my shawl around me to stave off the cold winds that claw their way through walls that seem as thin as the sheets covering the forgotten ones. How long can I tend them alone, though? How much medicine do we have to dispense, how much broth is left in the pot? I stop at each bed and offer a gentle smile, a word of encouragement, a sip of water. I grow weary though. It has been so many hours that I have served them all alone. It’s dangerous to be here. There are those that hate these poor humans just because they are different. Different color, different slant of the eyes, different speech. Why does different frighten us so much? I’m too tired to muse anymore. I’m afraid my strength is waning rapidly now. I’ll just make one more round through the patchwork of beds and then I’ll let myself rest a bit. My step is getting sluggish, though, and the room is slipping into a slight spin. But there – wait. I see the door at the far side of room open, feel the chill of the winter air blow in along with the man stepping across the threshold. His eyes are the same as the Forgotten Ones I tend to. They hold the same pain, but even from here I can see that his eyes are still edged with steel. Is he some kind of angel? Do angels wear wide brimmed hats and long wool coats? I would wonder about that more, but I find myself swaying, see the floor rushing up to meet me. I hear the sound of boots quickly echoing across the wooden floor and feel strong arms catch me just as the world around me fades away.