Parallels

I like to believe that things tend to come full circle. Or, at least, most of the way around.

During my first week of college classes, I was trying to adjust to the work load. I spent my first day of my history class nodding and nodding and nodding at everything the teacher said when talking through the syllabus. I was devastated that by that Friday, I hadn't finished reading Pride and Prejudice for my first English class (entitled "The Novel"). I did eventually finish the book, about three weeks later, and loved it.* Everything was bright and strange and weird. I'd also fooled myself into thinking that riding my bike to class and getting up at 6:30 every morning was how I was going to spend my time every day of every semester.

This past week was my last official week of classes as an undergraduate. On Monday, I spent a good three hours working on my final illustration project (an illustration of Emma Watson that turned out a lot better than I thought it would), fighting exhaustion from only a few hours of sleep the night before. On Tuesday, I finished up the drawings for my final drawing series as well as the illustration project, and made it home early enough to watch the new Glee episode with Alisha. On Wednesday, I tried to focus my attention on the rough draft of my drawing thesis paper, and wrote late into the night, as has been my tendency with papers. Thursday was a blur of a critique in drawing, which promptly turned into a nightmare when I got frazzled trying to navigate Photoshop and InDesign while working on my portfolio in BFA studio. I called my dad to wish him a happy birthday, angry at myself for not being as talkative as I would have liked.

Friday was my last official day of class. Work was work. Someone brought up Scooter Girl before Advanced Fiction and a thousand memories of my first years in the dorms came rushing back to me. We ate cookies (beautiful, delicious, non-alcoholic confections called 'cookie shots') while singing loudly to the tune of the graduation march while my Creative Writing professor handed out congratulatory cards from the English department to those who were graduating. And then she said her goodbyes, we did TEVALS, and it was done.

As I was walking through the quad on my way back to my car, I witnessed, finally, a group of the tight-rope walkers. And I wanted to cry.

I went to Hunter's and Vicky's BFA reception. Their work in the gallery was INCREDIBLE. The English banquet later that night was beautiful and the finality of the semester really started to hit me. I was simultaneously lamenting the end of everything I'd grown to love over the last few years and eager to dive right into the next step: writing, reading, working, prep for grad school, the freedom from stress. Bittersweet, and understandably so. Being surrounded by friends and teachers and people who loved many of the same things I loved was the perfect way to end the semester. I'll miss it.

The more I think about everything I've experienced over the last six years, the more overwhelmed I become. I feel like I've been experiencing emotions I don't even have names for. But enough sentimentality.**

And then there was this afternoon, when I got a call from one of my oldest college friends, Jenna, as she was in town for the day and wanted to get together with Prairie and I. I met them at ColdStone, our favorite place to go together. We used to go there regularly the first few years of college before we got busy (nearly every Tuesday, when you could get a second Like It for $.25 with a student I.D.). Jenna gave me my graduation present, a gift card for ColdStone, and I ordered my usual, as was the tradition: Cookie Doughn't You Want Some, with extra napkins because it gets messy.


*I'm a slow reader. And that week I was really, really overwhelmed.

**I'm terribly sorry about the sap. I'm working on it.

The Worst Block of All

Drawing and I have always had a strange relationship. It's rare for me to be completely satisfied with a drawing, and I get discouraged easily. If something isn't looking right, or if I'm not connecting to the process, or even when I feel like all I'm doing is slapping media on to the paper, I shut down. And when that happens, I get really discouraged.

It started the week leading up to my birthday. I knew I wasn't making enough work (something that tends to come up a lot in talking with my drawing professor), but I was still waiting to hear word on a studio space. Thus, I hadn't had a lot of time (or, frankly, motivation) to make as much work as she had wanted me to. The weekend of my birthday, I made five drawings in addition to the two I'd started earlier that week, and I got so frustrated with myself and the unresolved status of a studio space and my upcoming show to be in the mood for any sort of discussion about my work. But, of course, on Valentine's Day, my professor wanted the class to have a critique of the eight drawings I'd done. I wanted to cry. I crossed my arms a lot and didn't pay much attention to what was being said, responding with a resounding "I honestly don't know" to every question asked of me. That same day I found out that because there wasn't a particular space for me to use, I'd be able to use the watercolor studio, a fairly public space for art students, as a studio space. That made me want to cry more, though I understood that the circumstances were beyond anyone's control. Everything combined together made me feel the worst I've ever felt as an art major. What was the point of drawing if all I could contribute was poorly-executed mixed media drawings that failed to connect with my artist statement? Where could I go?

I didn't draw anything for a week. This past week, however, was a little better, though the procrastination has seemed to worsen. I started two drawings that I have yet to finish but haven't had the energy or desire to do so. I started using the watercolor studio, but froze up when other students came in to work on their watercolor assignments or other homework as they waited for their next studio or art history class. I get nervous with other people in the room when I'm drawing. I hate the feeling of someone "looking over my shoulder" and my arm stiffens up and I'm uber conscious of my mark-making. I feel like I can't focus nor let everything go and just draw. It's horrible.

One guy in particular came in on Tuesday, and literally walked up to where I'd taped up the drawing across two drafting tables and was waiting for the gesso I'd applied to dry. He started asking me questions: "What are you using on this?" "Why did you choose to use the gesso with the charcoal?" "How do you like working this big?" And as nice as this guy was, I couldn't help getting secretly annoyed that he was asking me so many questions I wasn't prepared to answer. As far as my bad drawing side was concerned, he was a gawker and I would have given my drawing hand to be anywhere other than in the watercolor room at that very moment.

I feel like I've been drifting in every direction in the last few weeks. Graduation, unresolved studio space issues, the BFA show, preparations for the Sigma Tau Delta Convention, my unwanted but unrelenting senioritis, and the upcoming drawing portfolio all BFA seniors are required to turn in upon completing their BFA show...I've been so distraught I even entertained the idea that I was regretting becoming a drawing major. The other day I tweeted* about how annoyed with myself I'd been because I'd left some of my drawing materials at home, and ultimately that I felt my BFA show (which goes up on Easter Sunday) will suck. Almost immediately after I tweeted this, my friend Hunter, a painting major and fellow graduating senior, responded with:

STOP IT Stop complaining, stop doubting, and#GetYourShitDone If I, THE KING OF PESSIMISM, am telling you to stop, do it #believe

It was quite a wake-up call, and I told him so later that day when I saw him.

I don't think I'll ever be able to shake my low drawing self-esteem. I've toted it along with me against my will for a long time, managing to overcome it once and awhile (those are the good drawing days). I just want to be making drawings that I'm satisfied with, and thus far, it hasn't worked out that way. And frankly, of all the times for me to experience such a terrible bout of artist's block, this is the worst possible time for it. I cannot afford to be lost this close to the culminating event of my pursuit of a BFA degree.

Last spring, Heidi sent me the link to this song, hoping that it would help me find the understanding I needed.

Have I mentioned how incredible my sister is?


*I hate emotional tweeting, but I realized I've been doing it unconsciously as of late. Alas.

For those interested....

... I recently had the very wonderful honor of guest-blogging over at The Hype. Check it out if you have a spare moment or two. And even if you aren't necessarily interested in my post, please check out the site, which will definitely be worth it because The Hype website is off-the-hook amazing and highly entertaining. You won't be disappointed.

Many, many thanks to The Hype for their invitation. It was a blast. :)

Resolutions for 2012

When I sit down to write out my resolutions, I tend to look over the previous year's to construct the new list, adding things here and there. Thus.

1. Control the amount of money I spend on music. Last year I resolved to not buy any more music until I had every Beatles album, and I failed miserably. I think it might be a good idea to stick to that same resolution again. No other music until I have completed my Beatles discography. 
2. By the end of 2012, I have to have gone through everything I own--both at home and in the Tiny Blue Room--and gotten rid of all that I don't need any more. Clothes should be taken to Goodwill or Habitat for Humanity, books should be taken to The Dusty Bookshelf, and music and movies should be taken to somewhere that will take them and sell them again. I've been too lax in the control of my hoarding, and I need to buckle down. A massive "spring cleaning" is needed. 
3. Better scheduling and following of deadlines. This is one of the things I have the most trouble with. 
4. Journal/freewrite/write everyday, even if it's only 15 minutes. 
5. Finish writing the novel I started for Nanowrimo 2011. 
6. Complete Nanowrimo 2012 in November.
7. Budget better so that I can start saving a little money. 
8. Try to cut down on the amount of pointless internet surfing that I do. 
9. Get applications for grad school sent out. Take the time to go through picking schools to apply to. 
10. Organize my music, books, and artwork.
11. Make more work, and try to work through any artistic block that may arise. 
12. Try not to get so angry with my roommates...because that was another huge problem for me last year.
13. Professionalize my wardrobe so that I'm ready for the upcoming changes that will accompany my upcoming graduation. 
14. As my sister pointed out to me, I need to allow myself more time to relax and de-stress. 

The Weekend Before Dead Week

I'm tired. I'm annoyed that I feel like I've learned very little in my art history class because of the online lectures--a structure I don't do well with. I want to write more nonfiction but I have to wait until I have other things finished first. I feel like my French Lit teacher thinks I'm an idiot because I have a hard time speaking in French (I don't have time to think it out in my head), even though he probably doesn't. I have a lot of drawing stuff to do before Wednesday and because I don't have any kind of studio space in which to work, I'm having a hard time motivating myself to do anything at the house because I have to work in the dining room and there's TV and my roommates are usually here...

I've discovered as time goes on that I feel very uncomfortable with other people in the room when I'm drawing. It's like someone reading over your shoulder. I can feel the eyes on the drawing.

I've always had that discomfort, though. I'm fine in studio classes when we're drawing as a group until someone comes to walk around to see what everyone else is doing--that's when I get nervous and I feel my arm--and the mark-making--become really stiff. When I make rounds, I can't stand in one place too long because I don't want to do that to anyone else.

Perhaps all the time I spent holed up at home in my room in high school turned me off to any sort of ability to handle any normal social interaction. My extreme lack of confidence with drawing doesn't help, either.

But enough worrying and stressing. Linkage of interest:

First, this beautiful, wonderful ad.

Second, this video celebrating the awesomeness of free speech with quite a few awesome authors (including Sarah Dessen and John Green *cue major fangirling*).

Things I Need to Do Before Christmas:

• finish my Christmas shopping
• make serious headway in my Nano novel, considering I haven't touched it in a month
• clean the Tiny Blue Room, because everything's pell mell at this point
• reread The Outsiders (which I've been meaning to do for a long time)
• finish the last few things of schoolwork I need to do before the end of the semester on the 16th
• do some hardcore studying for my French final
• get my hair cut (or something...)

Two more weeks. I have to keep reminding myself that there's only two weeks left. 

A Few Brief Thoughts on Learning

The reading we were discussing in French Lit today included a couple essays from the French essayist Montaigne. The excerpts we had to read discussed the concept of death from Montaigne's point of view. Back at the beginning of the semester in my non-fiction class, we talked a little about Montaigne as one of the earliest essayists (in the traditional sense of non-fiction, anyway) in history. He's well known, and his writing is highly regarded.

When we talked about him in Adv. Non-Fiction, we discussed how the word "essay" derives from the French "essayer," which means "to try" or "to attempt". Essays, therefore, are one means for the writer to make an attempt to make sense of the world in relation to their own viewpoint; it can also be a kind of attempt to make a point (as in an essay supporting and promoting a certain argument).

Today, we talked a little about the origins of "essais," the French for essays. Again, "essayer" is the word from which it derives. 

For some reason, when my professor asked us what it meant in English, and we answered "to attempt," I had a moment of clarity. Essays are attempts. An attempt. I knew I made the connection back at the beginning of the semester, but it seemed to finally click, and the connection between these two things, French literature from the Renaissance and the art of writing non-fiction (essays in particular), solidified itself within my mind. True to the humanistic spirit of the Renaissance, Montaigne's essays explore and exemplify the idea of individual thought. 

I've been fascinated with the idea of coming to some sort of understanding through the act of writing, particularly how memory can assist with that in addition to the intriguing idea of a kind of fallible  memory. (This, of course, is thanks to the amazing Non-Fiction writing class I'm currently in.) Memoirs, for instance, are reflections upon an event or more that may be connected in some way. These reflections attempt to make sense of who we are as human beings, as individuals, as one small part of the collective human race. There is so much freedom in this: non-fiction (including the memoir) can be anything, explore anything. Montaigne is trying to come to an understanding of his own views on death in relation to the viewpoints from various philosophers of and before his time.

Understanding. Attempting to understand, to make these connections in what we know, what we remember, and what we may not know. 

I have random moments similar to this fairly often. I will be sitting in lecture, and something--or everything--will suddenly click. Perhaps there is an overlap, or even repetition in the information. Perhaps it is also an honest interest in what we're learning. I love those grand moments of understanding. Little by little, the world starts to make a bit more sense. Perhaps this is what my answers to the Sorting questions on Pottermore indicated when I was officially sorted into Ravenclaw.* Maybe, maybe not. 

I think it simply comes down to learning and how this (an many other kinds of learning) continues. Our minds, as well as our capacity and desire to gain knowledge, is an intriguing thing. 

*I explain more on this (and other thoughts on Pottermore) later; I'm still in shock. But a good kind of shot. It's hard to wrap my mind around it...

It Was a Tuesday

At least, I think it was a Tuesday. I was in eighth grade, and was sitting in second hour, Advanced English.

Mrs. Bower, the gifted teacher, was in the room preparing things for the days' lesson; she came every Tuesday in class to do different activities with us. Sometimes we did projects, sometimes stories with holes, sometimes different writing assignments aside from what Mrs. Anderson was having us do. I don't remember what she had planned for that day.

Shortly after class had started, Mr. Young, the American History teacher for in the high school (the junior high was connected to the high school) popped his head into the room.

"Some idiot just ran a plane into the World Trade Center," he told Mrs. Bower and Mrs. Anderson.

Channel One, a news program we watched every day at the beginning of second hour, didn't have any news that day about the WTC. I knew it was because it was taped before anything actually happened in New York City. It wasn't until the next day that we saw anything related to the tragedy.

We watched the news in almost every class for the rest of the day. Mr. Thexton, my Earth Science teacher, snapped at our class when some of us weren't paying attention to what we were seeing on screen. Some people in my classes joked a little about it. I remember being horrified when I saw images of people running away from a train of billowing smoke down the street. And it continued to get worse, and I wondered this real thing that was actually happening would never end. That kind of thing only happened in movies.

At lunch, the teachers had set up a television on a rolling cart in the cafeteria and had turned on the news.   I sat at a round table close to where the t.v. set was, watching and trying to process what was happening as I waited for the rest of the group I sat with to arrive. Tessa and Leanne came, talking.

Bethany, one girl who I used to call my best friend (and I seemed to go through a lot of them), was one of the last of us to sit down. She walked up to the table in a mild rage, her feet attached to some invisible engine propelling her forward. She slammed her tray down, and looked at us all before taking her seat.

"I can't believe it," she said, her tone serious and tinged with snark. "I was going to visit the World Trade Center some day and now I can't even go because someone knocked it down."

I sat there, shocked. Was she really going to make this all about her? Did she not realize what had happened? How many lives were lost, from the employees inside the building to the people on the planes and then those who tried to save them? How many families were affected, including, as I would find out later that day, a distant cousin on my mom's side and his two daughters, who were much to young to fully grasp what had happened, who had lost a wife and mother that morning?

This was much bigger than that. It affected all of us.

First Week Thoughts

Right now my thoughts are pretty foggy.

My art history class is going to have a different format than I'm used to. I've had the professor for two other art history classes, and the way he's structured the class in the past is with lecture from which we will take notes in class. I've been pretty happy with that format. I'm an incessant note-taker, and it gave me a chance to take a lot of notes and therefore keep up with what he was saying. This semester, however, he has split the class in half. One group will meet on Tuesdays, the other on Thursdays. On class days, we will be doing in-class activities/presentations based on the lectures and activities we had to do online throughout the week.

Part of me is excited about this format; the professor talked through some of the goals of the in-class activities, including some practice with writing criticism/analyses and artist statements in relation to what we're talking about. The other part is worried. I'm not yet sure what that worry is in response to (though I have a feeling it's not just about one thing). I'm giving it two weeks before I have an opinion about it.

Drawing 3 does not seem as scary as it was last fall. We're starting with a focus on observational drawing. I did a drawing of my cell phone yesterday in class--unfinished, because we only had an hour and the instruction was to make the object we chose as observed as possible. I'm also waiting to have an opinion until I've attended more sessions, but right now I'm feeling good about it. This is good news considering how close I am to developing and putting up my BFA show. I know it will be challenging--incredibly so--but I feel positive.

I know I'm going to love my Intro to French Lit 2 class. We're reading a great variety of literature from the Middle Ages (Le Moyen Age en francais) to the 1700s. I'm stoked; I haven't read a lot of literature from the time period yet, so it will be something different and exciting. The best and also the most nerve-wracking part of it is that because it is a language course, the class is entirely in French. We're reading these classic French works in French (some of which has been translated into the modern French from the original Old French). Mind = blown. My worry, however, is that it's going to become overwhelming. My French vocabulary is not very good at the moment (I'm working on it), and it might take me awhile to get into the swing of reading in addition to our class discussion. I'm so excited for it, but I know it's going to take a lot of work.

Finally, there is Advanced Creative Non-Fiction, a class that will also be a challenge. I have a lot of feelings about this class, and they are all good. I can't wait to be back in the swing of writing again, especially because I haven't done a lot of non-fiction writing. I write fiction and poetry, so this is definitely going to be a different kind of experience and will give me the chance to expand on my knowledge in and of creative writing. I want to do it justice, though. I don't want to fall into a pattern of embellishment and exaggeration. I was so worried about not being able to remember everything--something I'm convinced is impossible to achieve. What if I couldn't produce anything that is able to capture what I want to say? One can't "make stuff up." We had to read a couple of short essays discussing the genre itself--which is much more varied than I ever imagined: essay, travel writing, literary journalism, memoir, cultural criticism, food writing, and so on. Mind = Blown. In that chunk of reading, I gained more enthusiasm and excitement for trying out the genre then I'd ever thought I'd have. There was something, too, that my professor said yesterday in class that soothed my concerns. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something along the lines of: "be truthful to the memory as you remember it." I think I wrote it down in my notes from yesterday; I'll look it up and post it, because it really struck me.

Perhaps I worry too much.


Edit 25 Aug: I have written in my notes (probably not word-for-word): "be true to the memory as you have it." Another thing I wrote down that struck me as interesting is "silence is a power in literature." Also, "verity."

Hodgepodge #3

It's been at least two weeks since we've moved into the house. Our dining room still has some boxes (all of them belonging to the other girls; Alisha and I have both unpacked/set aside our own things), and I still have to figure out what posters I want up in my room. If they'll fit within my limited wall space, anyway.

We had a cook-out Sunday night as a kind of house-warming to celebrate. A handful of friends came to eat food and hang out with us. Andrew and Nate came from KC to visit--both of whom we don't get to see very often, so it was great to visit with both of them. Maybe it was just me and my simplistic expectations, but what I thought was going to be a leisurely, mellow get-together turned out to feel more like a let's-get-crunk "leisurely" party. Prairie and Emma were drunk. Alisha was tipsy and wanting to start a kind of dance-party thing in our living room (something I wasn't completely opposed to, but was still in that things-will-break nervous state). Amanda left at one point with John and a few of their friends, and my camera was passed around (ninety percent of the pictures from the party were not taken by me).

Overall it was a success--and it really was a lot of fun. The best part was getting the chance to see most of our friends in one place at one time. I am just not the kind of person who handles social situations very well. And there was a lot of loud talking and laughing and I got a little nervous.

The Glee Project's finale is next week. I was devastated and a little miffed when Hannah was sent home two weeks ago. (I mean, seriously, Glee Project? You're going to send home Hannah--who is the show--in favor of the two people who can sing better than her? Who furthermore, incidentally, received more criticism from Ryan Murphy than her. Explain that to me, please.) Anyway, I'm really hoping Damian will win, and I have a strong feeling--a.k.a. I'm wishing hard--that he'll be the one to come out on top. Or Alex. I wouldn't mind Alex winning. Samuel is incredibly talented, but we are still finding out things about him. What is his deal? And Lindsay...I don't know what I'd do if she wins.

Classes for the fall semester begin on Monday. I'm very discombobulated at the moment concerning this. The end of the summer "vacation" has taken a kind of toll on my patience and positivity. I don't know how to describe it; I'm not really angry, per say, nor am I in a bad mood. There have been days where I have indeed had the chance to sit back. But those days were few, sporadic, and never lasted longer than three days. Why didn't I take off a week or two? And why did the summer go by so fast? I need some time at home, away from everything here. I want to see my parents longer than just three days. I want to be able to meet up with Maggie so I can visit with her, and also see my goddaughter Emilyn, whom I haven't seen since the beginning of June. I want to see my cats Angus and Naomi (both of which I'm technically barred from bringing to live with me at the new house). I don't want to have to worry about work or classwork. I want to start the sweater I've been meaning to knit for my sister (if my poor knitting mojo doesn't let me down, that is).

C'est la vie. I think this will make Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks all the more special, however. I wonder if it's healthy for this kind of thing to happen to a person. (I'm almost sure it isn't.) This is why there are paid vacations at Big Kid Jobs and breaks in education. Everyone needs a moment to pause or they'll combust.

I'll leave you this afternoon with new bits of awesome from Lady Gaga. Music is a wonderful thing; there is something really special about losing yourself in the sounds and the words. For some reason I keep thinking about that one part of Disney's Fantasia where they try to recreate the visuals of the sounds. I don't know if the two things have an actually connection, but it makes sense in my head.

"San Francisco" by Scott McKenzie

I love this song. I remember asking my dad about it whenever it came on the radio--I'd always forget who performed it--and he'd always point out that it had a link to an actual event that took place in San Francisco. It wasn't until today in class, when we were watching a video detailing the Summer of Love in 1967 that it finally connected in my brain the meaning of what he was saying. Wow.

I've been having moments like this off and on for the last three weeks: thinking about the stories my parents have told me, constructing a mental timeline, finally connecting event to event, letting the realities of things that happened sink in and envelop my mind. Not only am I slowly gaining a better understanding of where we are as a society today, but also how I relate to my parents to my grandparents...and suddenly I feel more passionate. I honestly don't know how to explain how or why, but I feel it. There is so much going through my mind right now, I'm overwhelmed. I know now how much I care about what happened during the sixties--because it affected so much. I might touch on this more a little later, but right now I find myself lost in what had happened in my parents' generation, and really, being two days away from being done with the class, I really need to focus on all the essays I have to compose in the next week. 

In the meantime, I'm going to pop in all the 60s music I know of so I can concentrate. And this one will be played a lot. 

Decoding a Secret Note from Long Ago...

Yesterday when I got up (I'm at home for the weekend to visit my family), I came downstairs and was almost immediately called into the kitchen. Mom and Heidi were looking at me with almost identical amused expressions.

"So guess what we found underneath the water tank?" Heidi asked. 

"It's very 'privat'," Mom added, "and it's addressed to you."

The first thing I thought of was Harry Potter because the way she pronounced 'privat' sounded like 'Privet'. I didn't know what to say, and looked back and forth between them. "What are you talking about?" I asked after a moment, baffled. 

Heidi then handed me a folded up piece of notebook paper, one that was slightly battered with a couple tea stains and the words: "Privat dont read" written in pencil on the outside. 

Before I read it aloud to Mom and Heidi, I glanced over it to reacquaint myself with its contents. As soon as I read the first line, I knew exactly what it was. This is what it said (spellings, grammar, etc. have been retained from the original): 

Dear Heather,

I was thinking and I Guess I Do like you, and well will you Go out with me? and about the butterfly hair hair clips I think you should Decide if you look better with them on or off. if you dont want to be my Girlfriend thats fine. and I think your cute too. Well if you want to Reply to this the sign it and put a yes or no beside your name.

Sincerely, Charlie

Mom, Heidi, and I laughed about it after I finished, but it got me thinking. My apparent vanity the note admitted to aside, if you would have asked me two days ago, I would have told you that there was no way I'd received a "yes/no" note in elementary school. Cue yesterday, when I realized how naive I'd been. Who was I kidding? Of course I'd gotten one; I would not remember EVERYTHING that had happened in school. As for the information gathered from reading this ancient note, I knew that I was in fifth grade when I'd received it (the mention of butterfly clips, which were all the rage at that point). I remembered the events that lead up to it. This boy was new at the time and I had a crush on him, and then proceeded to tell everyone at Girl Scouts about my feelings. Within a few days he knew that I liked him because it's the general tendency to pass on the information to everyone else in the fifth grade. I must have either written him a note or talked to him at recess to clarify information, and then he responded with this.

I don't think I "dated" him. I had had a couple of "secret boyfriends" after this note, but the sender was never either of them and since I was not allowed to truly date until I was 16, the two relationships in question never got any further than notes passed in class or exchanged tokens or one or two slow dances in seventh grade. I suppose my main concern after reading it yesterday was that I couldn't remember everything surrounding it. What else was going on? The note holds some sort of context long forgotten, weighing it down to a point from which I cannot retrieve it. And was he truly interested in being my boyfriend? Probably not, but at that age, it may be more of the idea of being closer with the people you fancy or the idea itself of having a significant others that drives kids to ask yes or no. It is the nearing the line between cooties of grade school and the hormones of the teenage years, where sexual experimentation reigns king and love gets complicated.

I haven't been in a relationship in four years, but in that time I've thought a lot about it. I know know that it's more than just "thinking someone's cute" (though I appreciate what the note had to say). There are also many kinds of love, and the kind of love that the note addresses is much different than the kind of love people my age search for. As we grow older, our understanding of the world becomes both clearer and much more complex. I fear that sometimes we forget that love is that complicated, and therefore what we think is forever reveals itself to be only temporary. I know that I've only felt that "strongly" about one person ever, and I never even dated him--and even then I still am not sure what our friendship entailed or if what I felt was truly this kind of love. It is different than the kind of love I have for my parents, my sister, my family, or my friends. I see the kind of love my friends and peers have with their significant others, the love that's declared daily on Facebook, both for newlyweds and babies. Everyday it seems more and more complicated. And when we toss around the word "love" like a frisbee, do we fully comprehend how what we say relates to what it is we're actually feeling?

Graham Little, "Daffodil Shoe Lady"

For the Human Form and Composition class I'm taking this intersession, we had to look at a few artists of our choosing (master or no, old or contemporary) from which we are to incorporate elements, styles, techniques, etc into our own exploration of depicting/presenting the figure. Because I'm bad at making a single choice, I decided to pull from two or more artists (because I'm doing that kind of thing anyway with my own work). Two of my favorites artists I looked up again were Caravaggio and Degas, but I felt like I should look at some contemporary figurative artists as well.

The third I chose was Graham Little, a British artist who works in colored pencil (!!!). I googled his work to refresh my memory and found this piece:

I can't stop looking at it. I LOVE IT. Also, for some inexplicable reason, all I can think about when I look at it is Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott." (Which, incidentally, is one of my favorite poems and the inspiration for another of my favorite paintings.)

The End of Another Semester

The last two weeks have been a blur; my concentration started waning at the end of April, and since then it has been hard to focus on anything. I was tired of thinking so hard about everything--only because I have the tendency to over-think everything. A combination of drawing-related distress over concept and imagery mixed with general exhaustion and an abnormal schedule was too much to deal with at times, and I was worried that it would ruin my desire to continue with my double major. I was tired of dealing with my indecision and lack of motivation, eager to find a way to meld my love for writing and drawing together in a way that did not follow the expected path, and in such a way that I could grow. I don't remember ever being this lost and upset when it came to school. But that was then, and I made it out of this stressful year alive. In retrospect, I realize that I might have been a tad harsh on myself. I still have time to figure this out. I can only get to the finish line after making the journey, and I have a lot of growing and experimenting yet to go. Next year will be better. I know it. 

Last weekend, Alisha and I had the great pleasure to attend the Digitour 2011 in Lawrence, where we met various members of StarKidPotter, the very talented people behind the genius that is "A Very Potter Musical" and the shows that followed it. The thing I loved about being there was the sense of nerdish freedom and fun that surrounded us. All of the performers, including Dave Days, Nice Peter, etc, were 'regular people' who enjoyed sharing their own kind of awesome with the rest of the world. And granted, it was worth every minute to see StarKid, but it was super awesome to see everyone else as well. I loved every moment of it. It's hard to fully describe the feeling of joy we had during those 6 hours+. And as cliche as it may sound, unforgettable. 

Since finishing up with finals and such on Friday, I've been at home spending time with family. Yesterday was my cousin Brad's wedding, and it was beautiful. He looked quite dapper, and Jessica, his fiancee (now wife, hooray!), looked beautiful. Weddings always make me cry, and yesterday was no different. When Jess made her way down the aisle, when she and Brad exchanged vows....everything about it sent me into a fit of emotion. I'm so glad I was able to be there. Another plus of the day was definitely spending time with my mom's side of the family, something I hadn't been able to do since Christmas. I missed them so much; their humor and love and everything I love about them enveloped the day completely. I was very sad when Dad and I had to head back to Kansas. 

It's been a good couple of days. I need days like this, days in which I can simply be and spend time with family, handling things as they come instead of being on a tight schedule. At this moment, Dad and I are watching Deathly Hallows Part 1, as is our Watching-Harry-Potter-when-I-am-home tradition. It's been weird the last few days--it hasn't really sunk it that it's officially summer vacation, and I'm not really surprised because the first of my two summer classes starts tomorrow. And though I have to head back to school in the next few hours, at this moment, everything feels right with the world. In the last two days, I've had the chance to see my sister and meet her boyfriend (of whom I approve); caught up with my mom, filling her in on everything that has happened in the last month; talked music, life, and memories with my dad; seen and celebrated with my cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents; cuddled with my cats Angus and Naomi; and immersed myself in the Tale of the Three Brothers, hanging out with my dad. Simplicity, serenity. Things are pretty good at the moment. 

Seventy-Six Trombones*

To be honest, I don't remember a lot about my freshman year of high school. I didn't go to any dances that year that I remember, and I was not involved in drama club until my sophomore year, and I think what I did was spend a lot of time at home reading. (I think the terror of junior high needed a year from which to recover because it was so awful).

I remember few details about the year; reading Animal Farm, The Butterfly Revolution (both of which I hated) and Romeo and Juliet (my real introduction to Shakespeare, and I enjoyed it very much) in English, drawing like mad in Art, that blasted ink drawing that took me forever and a day to finish, the map project thing at Alcove Spring, bits and pieces of computers class, and marching band. Everything else is out of my memory--or at least so buried that it would take a lot of thinking/asking around to bring it to the surface. I don't think I kept a journal at all that year and I wish I had so that I could have something to reference from.

Anyway, I didn't actually realize this fully until today before the lunch shift, when Sara and I were talking about marching band and I was telling her all the stuff I loved and hated about it during the two years I was a part of it.

My band teacher's crazy bipolar/out of control temper (and the fact that he was the reason I gave up band for Art) aside, I loved marching band. There was something about the sound**, the horns mixed with the drumline, the cadences, the hats, the everything that made it worth my while. To walk out onto the field, the lights bright in the halftime twilight...To this day, I love watching the marching band at any high school/college football games.

I did remember one little detail today that I had forgotten about. Since band was the first class of the day, we were to meet out on the practice field and be ready to start at the beginning of class. Since marching band took place in the fall, the sun would rise later and later as the semester progressed. When we'd get to the other side of the track where the field was located, everything seemed gray, ethereal, with a kind of fog some mornings. As the sun creeped over the hill that towered over the east side of the field, the grass would "grow" greener and the fog absorbed into nothing, the shadow retreating into the base of the hill. In the space of one hour, we were illuminated.

Perhaps it's a little over the top, but it always made my day. The simple things in life, you know?

*Have you seen "The Music Man" (the 1962 version)? If not, you should. Right now.

**Which explains part of the reason that my favorite Glee cover to this day is this song, because, you know, Kurt and Mercedes rock it out and they have the WMHS marching band to accompany them. Such a great version.

Today I Feel...

We have a magnet on our fridge with a list of different emotions with matching pictures. There is a second magnet that can be moved around on top of the list with a little window that frames the desired emotion.

The emotion that has been displayed for the last week has been "Overwhelmed".

Complaints about end of the semester projects aside, today's song is this.

As today was one of those I'm-Going-To-Skip-Every-Song-On-My-iPod-Because-I'm-Having-A-Bad-Day days, I went through half my playlist without listening to a single song all the way through. When the Glee version of this came on (I don't yet have the original), however, I let it play. I'm not sure what about it deemed it worthy of my bad mood, but the lyrics are brilliant and that is one mean guitar.