Thursday, March 28, 2013

An Elephant in A Room.

I'm going to try to real blog. Maybe only like one or two or three or four pictures or something (oh man, slippery slope right there), and lots of words. Maybe I'll even only do one picture and even more words! You guys excited? I don't know if you should be, but whatevs, do it anyways. Get stoked. Be like DRAMAAAA! We love it!

Time to talk about the elephant in the room. Or, as Lena Dunham - I mean Hannah Horvath - says, "at least an elephant in a room."
So here we Gogh.
(On a totally unrelated note, how annoyed are you with my bad puns on a scale of "It's whatevs" to "STFU"?)

The nature of the beast is that it's temporary.     ^^^That's a beast. Like in case you weren't, like, sure.
The beast is that stage of flirtationship - vaguely friends, vaguely crushes. It's kind of undefinable. But you know what I'm talking about. Amrite or amirite? So you meet someone that has good legs and a sweet sense of humor. Really good legs. You're a little Leslie-Knope-awkward, but you also rock it with Leslie-Knope-level-class.

You work through the stages: Introduction, small talk with enough solid jokes thrown in that you move to the next step; Accquaintanceship (it's a word, guys); and after that, an easy flirtationship/friendship: lunch before class sometimes, study dates, etc.
But just as surely as you've worked your way through the steps, getting more encouraged with each one, something happens. And I don't think it's just me, because when I mention this, everyone knows what I'm talking about. It's nothing especially, you just find a nasty sort of ennui slipping in. It takes more to make him laugh, and you yourself are finding him less funny as you remain in perpetual vague friendship. The stagnation is so uneasy. It's like subconsciously you both understand that this stage is pre- something, anything, even if you can't quite vocalize it. At this point of frustration, you'd give up a potential romance if you guys could just be real friends. Because this stage has to go somewhere or it'll go backwards. And like, yeah, of course you still want to date him! He's still sweet, still has those rockin stems on him, still absurdly attractive. Did I mention he has great legs? Once or twice? But the ennui's hitting him too, and what was easy becomes strained, awkward, and you have no bloody idea how to get out of it and make any progress at all.

(Look, if Jennifer Lawrence doesn't know what to do, then screw it. We mortals don't stand a chance.)
You no longer have any freaking idea what's happening. It's all very He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. (Not the Audrey Tatou movie, though. That stuff's mental.)
It's unstable stuff. If you're in it a second longer than you should be, it becomes radioactive. Did the Imagine Dragons song just pop into your head? Yeah, me too. Sorry about that. The word might not even be radioactive. Retroactive, maybe? Googling "retroactive definition" is not helping. GOOGLE. Y U NO HELP? Look. The point is that the nature of the beast is that it's temporary, and so if you're in it too long, you began to slip back into Accquaintanceship. You just peter off, and in college, awkwardly crawl back into your little "not-quite not-quite friends" thing as the semester drags to an excruciating close. You still sit by each other, but only because it would be awkward and say too much to not any longer. It would be admitting that there was something, some spark, and now there's not. And we're just not invested or mature enough to admit that, amirite? And you still politely ask each other how your weekend was, etc., but that's just it. It's out of politeness. It's not out of any real interest, or out of any hope that you'll be part of the next weekend's plans, you know? And as soon as the class is done, FIN. The curtain closes and there's maybe a smattering of polite applause. You might like each other's statuses every once in a while, but that's it, besides being mocked by the ghost of what-could-have-been.
And you hang out in this kind-of-occasionally-mildly-depressed-about-it-thing (Guys, using really clinical and correct terms esta noche) for a while.

But then you convince yourself he was far too conservative/liberal/serious/goofy/uncultured/cultured for it to have really worked out anyways. Like you'd have been like "THAT NEW STROKES ALBUM." And he'd be like, "What about it?" And you'd be like, "Um, it's amazing?" and then it would just be like,

Or, you know, think of a situation that actually relates and isn't just some weird extension of my #firstworldhipsterproblems. You know? He wouldn't want to go to the museum or he WOULD but he'd want to analyze Rothko and you'd just be like IT'S COOL BUT DO WE REALLY HAVE TO TALK ABOUT IT? Or you'd be talking about equal marriage rights and he'd joke, "Adam and Eve, babe, not Adam and Steve." And you'd be like REALLY? THAT'S WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY?
So you convince yourself that it was, like, sooo not gonna work out anyways. And after you have accordingly comforted yourself, and are feeling solid, you're going to remind yourself that, you know, they probably just weren't that into you (and yeah, this time I am referencing the movie, because it's a vaguely accurate rom-com with Ginnifer Goodwin, and you know what, I like her hair lots, so consider the reference made.)  You know how I said you were feeling comforted, solid in your position of "yeah, it would never have worked out anyways, so nbd."? Whatever. Considering that they were probably not that into you anyways: gonna make you feel REALLY AWESOME. I mean, like insanely awesome. Like you're gonna feel THIS good.

That's right, it sucks a latte. (Somehow I'm obsessed with that pun even when it makes zero sense. Maybe if I inserted a picture of an actual latte? But I've gotta resist the urge to fall back on pictures as usual. Fight it.


Ugh, I didn't fight it. Moving on.
And then you remember that like, what kind of logic is that? YOU liked HIM a lot(te) and still let it get weird. So couldn't he have liked you that much? What was true for you could totally be true for him, right? OMG, IT TOTALLY WAS. HE TOTALLY LIKED YOU.
And then reality is like, sugar. Even if he did, it's kind of pointless now? Once you fall from flirtationshipfriendshipish to Accquaintanceship, you can't get back to and beyond flirtationshipfriendshipish. Impossible. And don't listen to that Audrey Hepburn stuff. As gorgeous and excellent as the lady was, "I'm possible!" is not what the word means in this case. Accept it. Embrace it. Move on.
Maybe shouldn't border on sacrilegious by abusing an Audrey quote like that, huh?
You slowly level out to mild nostalgia for what never was. The ghost of what could have been no longer mocks you on the reg, it just kind of floats by pityingly when you're having a bad hair day and bombed a test. Hang out in this saddish little level until you meet someone with great hair and a dorky laugh. Did I mention he has great hair?
Rinse & Repeat.
A couple of notes, and I'm wondering if you guys have answers:
When you do things this way (aka always), do you ever really let all the way go?
And does "sad spiral" of Almost-to-Impossible build on "sad spiral" until you just eventually become actually sad? Because I think I'm a little bit afraid of that being the case. Do you think it is? Are ghosts of what-could-have-been just as detrimental as ghosts-of-christmas-past, or not?
I don't have answers. Thoughts?
Also thoughts on the whole actual-blogging-things-about-real-life thing? Working, not working...throw all the ghastly insults and gorgeous compliments you can think of at me, you beauts.
And one last triumphant note:


Monday, March 25, 2013


I'm not sure. Getting there, I think, but not quite? Ayudame!


Buy the Standard
for fifty p.
Tuck it into your armpit
as the escalator
into fluoro lights
and tiled walls.
Slide it down
to your lap as your
upper arms
as - the upper arms
of Dreads
and a City boy.
Hold it loose
in your
as the stairs
past the bright lights
To the steps
To the street
To the sky stick it under your arm
past the park,
through the trees.
And when you pocket your key
and cock your hip to the left
and the door swings shut
and the newspaper thuds
and the small wheels squeak,
You slide your shoes off
at slow once.
Circle all the words
that wriggle,
then lift
and swirl
with dust motes wondering
by your hairs.
If the grey light kisses
a word, pull it down,
coax it into the white.
Watch it carefully,
with parted lips.
As the word
slips with caution
across the ice.
If the grey light kisses
a word, it is
ready for better
than a world of
and parks.


Thursday, March 21, 2013

Ways I Am Like My Dog

Ways I Am Like My Dog:

  • Most people worry and confuse her, but the few that she loves, she loves intensely. While I don't hide under the bed when strangers come over, it's a pretty fair comparison.

  • We're both skeptics. Them eyebrows are always raised.
  • We both have sad little faces. Girl always be looking tragic and I've been told multiple times that I "always look so sad." We always be Grumpy Cat-ing it. But whatevs, cause we be REAL HAPPY. Especially when sleep is involved. We love that stuff.

  • She's mad for belly rubs, and I'm mad for back scratches. It's the same thing somehow.
  • We're both incapable of eating normally. Food falls out of our mouths all the time. All. The. Time. And we're both picky eaters. She's a strict anti-vegetarian. She eyes veggies the same way Ralphie's kid brother eyed oatmeal in A Christmas Story, except she never thinks it's funny when you do the "little piggy" impression. The way she tries to eat vegetables and then awkwardly spits them out while sheepishly looking away reminds me exactly of every time I've tried to eat sushi ever.
  • We both like to go clubbing and have wild nights out. If "go clubbing" is code for "go to bed" and "have wild nights out" is code for "have Redbox marathons".
  • We both like to harass the cat because, let's be honest, he's supah fat AND ginger. Double comedy value.

  • But we both really love his fat ginger face.
  • The snow is like, our favorite. Snow picnics FTW.

  • We're mountain girls forever. City what?
  • She's a super hot black chick and I', wait, never mind.
  • We both have good hair, although she wins by not being half bald.
  • Ugh, we both hate wearing pants. They're the WORST.
  • We both breathe funny. Like as weird as our eating is, our breathing is worse.
  • We both like never wear color. Neutrals foreva. She like always wears black but I try to mix it up by throwing some gray in there sometimes.

But mostly we're perfect for each other because she pretends that it's okay that I somehow always throw the ball behind me instead of in front of me and I pretend that I want to sleep on only half my twin bed because, yeah, she should totally take the pillow.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a girl in possession of a good backyard must be in want of a dog. And that dog shall teach her happiness.

Tabby (& Noel)
(And in case I've proven our simliarities so well you can't tell who's who, I'm the one in purple.)


The sun snuck in
to light the bridge
between my eyes.
If a woman is transfixed
and transfigured by the light
And leaves the truth behind
If no one sees the difference
Was she changed?
If the heavy light
pushes life
through her veins
Her hands the same
If no one felt her tremble
was she changed?
If I close my eyes
And still feel blind
By God who lies before me
And smoke that threads between me
and the sun
'till it consumes me
Am I flesh?
To make a composition,
Capture the light
and develop it in the dark:
My body
flung open,

Ginger & Rosa

Saturday, March 16, 2013


We watched A Bout de Souffle in my French & Italian Cinema class on Wednesday, and I fell in love with Jean Seberg in much the same way as I fell for Lea Seydoux. As Michel points out in the movie, she has major je-ne-sais-quoi.
Naturally, I took to the interwebs to stalk her up, and it turns out she had an absurdly sad and short life. That's the great thing about film, though. In A Bout de Souffle, she'll live on in grace and beauty forever.

And don't you just want to chop ALL the hair off now? Rockingest cut ever.
Have a gorgeous Saturday and be iconic or something.

Monday, March 4, 2013

A post about my actual life.

Because I'm apparently in the mood to blog today and because I'm apparently in the mood to abuse "because".
So I think it's a bloggerish thing to like, post things about your actual life instead of the internet at large?  So I thought I would keep in with my grand tradition of not actually writing that much but showing lots of pictures instead. But in the exciting twist no one saw coming, they will be pictures not of the cool people out there but of my life. Excitingest.
So here you go. Evidence that I'm a flesh-and-blood person who lives in the real world and not just in the Internet. (But if anyone figures out how to Willy Wonka that, lemme know, aight?)
I present: my room, in all its 12x12 glory.

Kooks poster from Edinburgh, guitar, scarf, giant panda.
DIY shotgun shell necklace, bunny locket from Edinburgh, old RCA record from Tennessee.
Pissarro print from Paris, doodle by me, GAP jacket, vintage 60s camera from Tennessee, wooden shoe model from Portobello Market, ditto spool. Lots of books and Harry Potter.
Vanity, collage by me, pictures & postcards.

Amy Poehler's face, magnet board, absurdly precarious stack of books.

It might be possible to have too many shoes and scarves. Tan and pink scarf, GAP, purple pom pom hat, GAP, blue plaid scarf, GAP, tan plaid scarf, London, fuschia and orange scarf, Marks & Spencer, black and yellow scarf, Wu Tang Clan, trainers, Saucony, high-tops, thrifted, Nike x Liberty of London, London.

My closet doors? I dont' know how to share personal stuff, you guys, so just pretend like pictures of closet doors is something all bloggers do. Jacket left, GAP, jacket right, Topshop.
My altar, I mean, my bookshelf. Color-coordinated because no reason, okay? Because everything is better color-coordinated.
White lace curtain, books (duh), sketch by me.

My closet? A fine mess it is. Only partially color-coordinated but I'm working on it, aight? (See also, "such a thing as too many shoes"."

Obviously we have a DINO in Lincoln Park. Guardin those green books like a boss.
All kinds of exciting things happening on these shelves - look, a double decker! An impressive looking book by Oscar Wilde that I haven't actually read yet! Cool magazines!
I love my bookshelves, okay? It's not a big deal.

I call this photo "Windowsill", or, "Books in every bloody possible nook and cranny". Whichever title is fine.

Teddy Burrrs. Because based on Love, Actually, it's acceptable to have a teddy bear (or two or three or four) even into your thirties. Deal with it.

Good foray into actual blogging land? Or should I stick to essentially being a glorified Pintrest board?