Christmas has come and gone, dearest readers, and I am left in the remnants of the holiday; the rich spices of the holiday candles linger in the apartment, the least tempting of the Christmas cookies sit in Tupperware on the counter in hopes of consumption, though the candidates up for the job are nearly sick on the copious sugar of the season. The mound of shredded wrapping paper has been cleared and thrown away, but the gifts received loiter about awkwardly like frightened children in a new school, waiting to be told where to go.

This Christmas was nice, if unfamiliar. Three days before Christmas Bryan and I sat in my car as I sobbed with Christmas blues; it didn’t feel like Christmas, and in the token ways, as I can now clarify in retrospect, it never did: Cincinnati lacked more than snow- the temperature was moderate and it felt like early autumn- and Bryan and I experienced some difficulty while trying to whip up the Christmas spirit. It wasn’t until sometime last week that we finally got the ornaments up, and we (well, I) furiously shopped for last minute baubles until the stores closed early Christmas Eve. I very much feared for the holiday before hand because this was the first year I felt frustrated with and hurried by Christmas; I had spent so much time worrying about my procrastination, and then had rushed through the horror of doing everything last-minute so hurriedly that I had done little to enjoy the season. I felt as if Christmas had pounced upon me without any of the delightful precursors. Once the shopping was finished, however, and the ornaments charmingly danced above the apartment we shacked up as the world around us shut down for a day. We baked delicious sugar cookies and mediocre gingerbread, watched and listened to Christmas programming, opened presents and sipped sapphire martinis. The house was warm and filled with the traditions that Bryan and I were beginning- such as our martinis, though I suspect that we’ll be drinking those quite often- and I am very happy with the Christmas I was lucky enough to enjoy.

Christmas has now passed, I’m afraid, and the world has resumed its unnerving pace. I returned to work last night, and five hours of the bistro’s stressful bustle was enough to make the entire season seem over and long gone. I made good money; I was stuck in a crappy three-table section that had endless problems, but due to the overwhelming volume of guests I still managed to walk with $72 (which couldn’t be more welcome at this point in time; Christmas has left me with $50 in my savings account and, well, nothing in my checking. A parking ticket has added additional stress to my financial strains- seriously, what type of heartless hard-ass gives a parking ticket a day after Christmas? There was no one downtown. WTF- and car insurance is due on the fourth). Making money is good, especially now, and I am ready to leave the joy and stress of the holiday behind and move on to 2007.

Perhaps lingering December excitement provides me with such content closure. Bryan received an unexpected bonus check a couple of days before Christmas, which allows us to execute the many decorating plans we’ve been stewing up for the apartment. Yesterday he ordered a corbu three-seater from Stendmar, a fantastic California company we were lucky to find, and we hope to have built a bookcase and a credenza by the time it is scheduled to arrive on the 12th. At that time we will have acquired the staples of the apartment, sans the hanging screens we plan to build, and we will begin the enjoyable, satisfying process of collecting the items that will complete the space: rugs, plants, vases, accent chairs, etc. The loft will be breathtaking. Due to our lack of funds we’ve had months upon months to devise and sketch, and now that we have the means to act upon half a year’s worth of brainstorming the space will be thought-out and well designed. We already have a couple of excellent items that will make the loft truly brilliant, and soon we will be that polished, fabulous couple that is normally restricted to supporting roles of idealized romantic comedies; we, the martini-sipping designers, with a WWII first aid tin to hold our pepto bismal and 1961 Gense salt shakers to pepper our meat, our Mac book sitting coyly in a clever, darling 1970s Air France flight bag, all found for dirt-cheap prices by our creative, brilliant frugality, and we’re in love to boot.

I return to university in six days. I am ready and excited; the success of last quarter has boosted my confidence in my ability to perform this quarter. I did my research before registering, picked easy teachers for my art history and English classes, and know exactly what to expect in my studio classes. I’m sure I’ll ace this quarter as I aced the last, and scholarships now feel within reach. The holidays are over but winter has just begun, yet soon, after the drudgery of January and February the sun will warm the city and beckon spring, and soon summer will follow, and I will look forward to the holidays once again.

Happy Holidays to all!

Cincinnati Union Terminal, built 1931

Behold the reason I haven't posted in months:

Student Name: Rachael Ashleigh Stefanussen
College: College of Design, Architecture, Art and Planning
Major: Industrial Design
Class: Sophomore
College Area Course Section Course Title Grade Credit

15 ENGL 102 006 ENGLISH COMP II A 3.00 12.0000
15 HIST 559 001 FASCISM IN EUROPE A 3.00 12.0000
23 FDST 101 009 FOUND STUDIO COLOR A 3.00 12.0000
23 FDST 121 009 FOUND DESIGN DRAW A- 3.00 11.0001
23 FDST 131 002 DIGITAL DES FUND A 1.00 4.0000

* * * DEAN'S LIST 3.923 * * *

Current Credit Hrs. Carried Credit Hrs. Earned Quality Points Quality Point Average Pass Hours Progress Hours Advanced Standing Total Hours
Quarter 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 13.00
College 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 13.00
University 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 0.00 60.00 73.00

Perhaps this is why running away from one's problems is a solution recommended by very few; I am referring to what today's repetitive, monotonous media would term “a lack of closure”, a phrase so bromidic that I hesitate to use it, yet for the sake of concision I shall employ such lackluster tools. That is what this is, as are all our personal experiences: despite the importance this situation holds in my life, despite the emotions it commands, it is always, in retrospect and upon examination, summed up and narrowed down to the general, given to all to see, touch, and to make their own, despite its personal nature. The blade that soars down upon me is truly two-sided; I am always so offended and disillusioned to see the conventionality of the things so dear to my heart, yet the experience of such situations, and the consequent comprehension of the concepts that birth our society's cliches make me feel awfully distinguished and wise. At these times I feel as if I am now one of those “older” people, the people who forcibly drag you away from self-pity with sloppy “been there, done that” remarks that, through the apathy instilled in them, negates the very real, very painful dilemma of whatever it is one is suffering. Do these remarks reflect the pain of the past? Does one ever distance oneself enough to carelessly reminisce, or is there a sadness behind every “been there, done that” remark? Perhaps even the “been there, done that, and I did it before you did, so stop sobbing about it, bitches” remarks blush with a tint of misery that can only be quelled by feigned nonchalance. Either way, both facets of any given ordeal- both the defeated acknowledgment of the plebeian and the satisfaction one gleams from an understanding of the plebeian- are exasperating when one has yet to come to terms with what has happened or successfully resolve what has happened. There is no consolation prize, no red ribbon to applaud your failed endeavors, only a hazy question mark that rises from the dust of the rubble, insulting your intelligence, your efforts, and your fatally wounded pride.

still testing....

test....test...

Today, a crisp day, kin to the autumn days of last week which were the first days of autumn, was the day I began school. My preparation for school was not substantial enough to prevent me from stumbling about the campus without a clue as to direction or purpose, nor did it allow me any reassurance in regards my class schedule, yet any further effort would have proven pointless. The campus is huge, complex, and impossible to understand, thereby quite comfortable. I am terrified, but I am here; my classes are set though I have yet to clear my mind and realize the work ahead of me, and I know where I am supposed to be, though still somewhat bewildered. I have a while to situate myself. This will be my second home, after all, for the next five years.

Waiting tables- or if I'm to be intransigently precise and politically correct: serving tables- is an astronomically sordid affair from which I've learned quite a bit. Though I have only marked the ranks of servers around the world for three months, I feel very much a part of the disconsolate lot; three months is more than enough to consider yourself a true, blue server, after all, given the rapid turnover and the nature of the work. I have worked in the service industry for years, but it wasn't until I actually started waiting tables that the industry and its various characteristics made sense to me- those being the cynical demeanor and fatalistic disillusionment that waiters and waitresses share to such an alarming, undiversified degree that it appears to be part of their uniform, the substance abuse, rampant binge drinking, that weathered, almost invincible appearance, self hatred and self destruction in general- and I now see what the rest of the individuals that share my job description see: what I do is darkly, sadly, yet indisputably hilarious.

The reason behind this amusement, I've decided, is the inherent pettiness of the work; while other individuals have more substantial careers and save their worries for million-dollar deals, million-dollar properties, the lives of the young or the old, brilliant design, the education of our children, or the contentment of the international market, the end all, be all of my line of work is a side of cauliflower cooked with extra butter with absolutely no parsley on the plate, around the plate, or within the vicinity of said cauliflower's preparation. In other fields one turns one's coworkers into enemies by stealing clients or preventing a 20,000 dollar raise. In the restaurant business, however, stealing a pen is call for fully-armed tribal warfare, and hoarding checkbooks is a treachery that would be attended to by a guillotine if the state would allow it. I panic while trying to remember that seat three at table 406 wants her water without ice and her eggs scrambled with swiss cheese. I strain to present the check exactly between the couple so as to not offend the independent woman or suggest that the traditional woman should offer to pay. The critical challenge in my career as a server is not a matter of consequential brilliance or cleverness, but rather the moment in which I stealthily slip the bread basket onto table 313 without inspiring the shriveled, ancient prune of a man at 315 to inquire as to why he never received a basket as well. I deal in the business of tending to the world's most absurdly pointless details that no normal, sane human being cares the slightest bit about.

Yet I care, and I must care; my bread and butter, sadly enough, is the bread and butter on table 313. I go to work knowing that my mind, body, and soul is there to be engaged in a flurry of exhausting nothingness and pointless abuse, just so that I might pay the insurance on the car that serves the sole purpose of taking me to work and back. The tasks I face are trivial, yet how grave the horror, how miserable the dread, how gut-wrenching is the fear that floods me when I see the parsley that sits atop my side of cauliflower. It is my job to panic if the baked onion soup going out to 110 has croûtons in it, or if the meat is overcooked or undercooked, or if any given guest has finally found something to complain about; this ridiculous concern is the mark of a good server. I have accepted this and strive to be the best server I possibly can be- I'll dance for my tip until I'm blue in the face, after all; I'm there to make money, not to moan about lost dignity- but it is still quite saddening to think about the fact that my job is to fret about croûtons. Luckily enough, that fact is amusing in a dry yet intense way, and the amusement just barely overpowers the dismal nuances of a job in the restaurant business. Lost dignity isn't really something to bemoan, especially when it can be so damn funny.

Misery aside, however, it is what I do. Serving tables is what I will be doing for the next five years. There are times when I take pride in my work and others when I just don't care, and most of this depends on the institution in which I am housed- if you want my gravy, pepper my ragu, and all that jazz- and the restaurants that have made work an enjoyable experience receive a cheerful server in a crisp, clean shirt. Unless, that is, I've deemed the garlic butter stain on the right sleeve unnoticeable (everyone together on three: Huzzah for dimly lit restaurants!). You get what you give, with the exception of the horrendous individuals who refuse to tip regardless of the service, and worry not: karma will prevail and their grandchildren shall have birth defects and I shall laugh. There is a strange camaraderie amongst those who have experienced the pain and the amusement of serving. I think I will always be happy to have been a part of it.

How delicate, how frivolous this world is when it is at the mercy of our perception. It is so awkward coming back to this place- much more so then when discovering new cities or spaces- and recognizing the change it has undergone yet experiencing a feeling of unease, knowing I've been here before, suspiciously questioning why it feels as if I never left. The sun is brighter than I remember it, though; I don't ever recall the harsh sunlight being this unbearable. The inhabitants affected by this heat, however, respond in the way I remember; excitement for the day disintegrates into grainy lethargy, and I remember the unpalatable task of seeking shade just to pine for activity once resting. It's amusing coming back, going back, leaving, returning, doing all the things we do in a lifetime: discovering new places, growing around them, leaving and remembering them not as they were but as we thought them to be, as we wished them to exist in memory. My warped memory has not changed Salt Lake; the city has not molded to my various memories, after all, and I return to a place independent of the emotional associations I once thought so important. It's quite comfortable here, actually.

Today Rob took me to an organ recital on Temple Square. He has turned into such a hospitable gentleman; yesterday, late in the evening when Mum, Will and I returned from the airport, at a time I thought everyone was asleep, Rob and Rick kindly greeted me and immediately rushed me off for a late dinner at Denny's (Rob treated; I just bought a pricey computer and can't spend a dime). It is edifying to speak with my darling brothers, to talk maturely to them about whatever currently consumes them and still be silly and absurd. I feel as if I have found a friend that our incessant, childish bickering hid from me before. I have high hopes for this visit- and perhaps that's my first mistake- but I honestly think this will be a delightful holiday, and I don't think I'll find myself quibbling with my brothers or mum. The house looks lovely, and I'm currently sitting outside on the charming patio, typing on Rob's laptop. I am protected from the brutal sunlight, a gentle breeze creeps up onto porch to cool me, and occasionally I look up to see a biker whizzing down the winding road. As I said: it's quite comfortable here, though that's not exactly the way I remember it.

The various deadlines that have cowered above my livelihood are slowly descending upon me. Throughout the summer their distance warranted limitless neglect and indifference on my part; those shapeless, formless little beasts simply weren't near enough to be seen clearly, and thus the imprecision of the threat gave me plenty of room to breathe and be merry. No worry, though, my darlings, no worry: I'm plowing through the bureaucracy of the UC to register, and I'm working five doubles a week to buy the computer I need. I'll make it, but barely, as I always do. I live by an effort/return ratio, after all, and there is but one sin that summons my penitence: working too hard. I studied just enough to just barely pass the written driving test last week when I transferred my license, and good lord, did it show; I was a question away from failing. I'll slave and slave and slave away for a 90% but not a bit more. When it comes to deadlines and various ordeals that need tending, I've adopted General Prescott's methods: I shan't shoot 'till I see the whites of their eyes.

Though preparations for the fall obviously haven't whipped me into a frenzy, it depresses me a bit all the same; I feel as if the first leaves have fallen, so to speak, and the summer's warmth will succumb to a blustery autumn any moment. My summer has been pleasant and much has been accomplished, but the laziness of summers past is nowhere to be found upon recollection. Gone are the days of exploring gullies and building nations in the backyard, gone forever. Money and its various complications are now permanent fixtures in my life, and their arrival marks the departure of young carelessness- or at least the forgiving carelessness that youth affords, for carelessness waxes as strong as ever in certain aspects of my life- and has chased away those lazy summer days. No worry, though, my darlings, no worry: this is all part of growing up, I suppose.

I feel all too grown-up, however, when I realize that I, a fellow multiple-job holder, have fallen into the cesspool of wide-spread employee dissatisfaction that is a strip mall. Granted, it's a brand-new, upscale strip mall, but all the same: the joy of shopping melts away when the employees helping you are not faceless, as they should be, but rather coworkers from either your first job or your second; they are not wall fixtures, they are people, and upon this sick realization the whole outing becomes dispiriting. I toss a glance through their uniforms and I see their wispy, withered soul; they do not come to work to help me and their fate is my own; I am them, I will see them at Lonestar when I go to work at six. Thus it is nothing more than an gross extension of my working hours, and the pleasure I once basked in is sadly no more. At least I have found a blessing amongst the scattered rubble, that being a money pouch generally left untouched by shopping, and in a couple of weeks I will be able to purchase my pretty new computer. I also give Lonestar my two weeks notice next week, and leave for a trip to Salt Lake in three. See, dearest readers: though I mourn the season's end, I recognize the welcome changes it heralds.

Yesterday was my birthday- details of the fabulous day will follow in a day or two- and this is what Bryan gave me: a fully-functioning L.C Smith & Corona Standard typewriter made in 1932. It is lovely, as you can see, and types beautifully...



And fits, quite conveniently...



Into this dandy little travel case. And a mere 18 lbs at that! Needless to say, I am thrilled.

Rapidly comes the end of asking others to run my drinks for me. Come this Saturday- a mere three days away, might I add- I turn nineteen and can officially serve alcohol in the mighty boozed-up state of Ohio. Oh happy day!

Despite my boundless sarcasm and cynicism, I am jubilant at the idea of a birthday. The various factors that have spawned such excitement are not what they used to be: though in past years and the time of early youth one waited with breath none more bated than that held for gifts, I'm simply happy to have cause to celebrate. It feels appropriate that the slightly monotonous summer should come to an end with my brother's visit, a vacation of my own, and finally, my birthday. This weekend's plans have been carved up with all sorts of delights: accompanying Bryan to a work party that, unlike previous, wretched work ordeals, includes half of a theme park and alcohol, a celebratory sushi outing with papa, and a small celebration between Bryan and I on Sunday. He's been teasing me with hints as to what his gift is ( we've code-named the gift “pear bucket” so as to make reference a little easier and more endearing). I look forward to the weekend.

It is a good thing I have this time to look forward to; I've returned to work with three delightful little doubles in a row (if you are going to accuse me of sarcasm and my usual loathsome bitterness, now would be the time to do so). Fortunately yesterday was an incredibly lucrative day- and has broken my record for the most ever made at Lonestar in one evening- but lunch today was not. I hope the misfortune of the lunch crowd will remain in isolation and not prove ominous for tonight's spoils. The air feels apocalyptic, I'm afraid, and I'm already a bit crestfallen because of the tragic finale of HBO's Rome's first season. Thus I would not be surprised if the evening returned me to my home with less than a twenty in my ragged pockets. Honestly, why on earth did they kill off Julius so quickly? All within one season Caesar is already dead? And Niobe as well? How necessary was that? Good lord, within three new episodes we'll already see Augustus' mistrust of Marc Antony begin to boil. Bah, I say.

I digress. I don't mean to drag you into this messy HBO business; I'm just so bummed. If they kill off James Purefoy anytime soon, however- I'll admit that it is an unlikely conspiracy, given that he plays Marc Antony- they will be receiving a very angry letter from a certain someone immediately.

Work beckons me, so off I go. Cheers, my darlings, and hopefully your evenings prove fairer than my own.

Saturday marked my return from holiday, which Bryan and I spent upwards in lovely Vancouver, and which was five marvelous days in duration. We stayed in a hostel downtown close to the water. In some ways it was relaxing, in some not; we had the whole city to see in those five days, after all, and the majority of our time was spent on the move from one district to the next. Though we did indulge in a couple of activities befitting and expected of us as tourists, we probably fooled half the locals. My favorite part was the food: our meals were extravagant, the drinking age is merciful, and the restaurant selection downtown phenomenal. Dining is a much better experience when a chic glass of shiraz is in hand. Pictures will soon be posted.

One of the best parts of the trip, however, was the layover in Salt Lake; the day-long ordeal gave me time to surprise mum and spend five or so hours with her. I miss her terribly, and the visit reminded me of this. I will try to visit Salt Lake in the next month or so prior to the beginning of school.

Life has returned to normal, with the exception of school registration, which reminds me that university begins in a month or so. I cannot wait; I tire of the summer and my lurid employment. Granted, a very expensive computer waits to be purchased within the month, and my savings are, well... what's a good euphemism for under three hundred dollars? Can't think of any? Bother, neither can I. Regardless, the thought of no longer working at lonestar brings tears to my destitute eyes.

Speaking of work and my long-lost mother, however: I work at six and plan to drop mum a ring before then. I must dash, darlings. Cheers.

Ricky, Rob and I at Sawyer Point, Cincinnati, Ohio.

The sun hung high and steady with a stubborn permanence and burned a hole in the sky as if a smoldering cigarette had been pressed to ash there moments before; the contrast of the blue and the gold and the green of the ground seemed cartoonish, ideal, and around four in the afternoon we stepped outside into the stifling heat of the mid-east. It wasn't the same deck of the summers of our past, of course- Ricky had only been to the new house once before, and for only a couple of days- but how very familiar this was. Humidity changes everything when it reigns at such an extreme. The iconic water swells within the air, stands between you and the world with such an exhausting density that it slows your movements to a sweet, lazy ballet, and reminds you that you are in the south, or at least close to it. One can't afford to hold on to anything other than what is actually there when in such oppressive heat; there is no energy for pretenses. We have grown; Ricky is six feet tall and speaks in a booming, low voice, and I am millions of miles away from what I once was, yet here we are, children again, in the same thick, Cincinnati heat that we played in years ago. Our attempts to catch the Frisbee we are tossing about blindly grow more and more careless and slow. Our attention begins to wane even more rapidly now; we are barely aware of the other, completely indifferent yet seamlessly comfortable in each other's presence. My brothers and I grew up together and possess the understanding and the comfort that consequently follows. Regardless of the differences between us, regardless of where we go and what we strive for and what we eventually become, we will always share this.

In an hour I have an appointment with the doctor- yet another- to investigate an abdominal pain I’ve been feeling for a couple of days. 5 days ago I thought I had a stomach ache, but since then the pain has remained steady and my right side has become swollen and tender to the touch. After investigating the symptoms Bryan and I decided I might be suffering from a gall stone some other unfortunate ailment. The pain is not debilitating- it is simply a throbbing burning that is fairly easy to ignore- but a visit to the doctor will be in order this afternoon regardless.

I hope this doesn’t interfere with the boys’ visit. Rob and Ricky fly in early tomorrow morning and I can’t wait to see them both. Rob’s been quite busy with his job and undoubtedly needs a rest, so dad and I will fight diligently to keep him away from his work, which can be accessed via internet. We have some fun things planned: two days at King’s Island, excellent seats to the reds game this Sunday, a trip to the Omnimax, and breakfast at Mimi’s the day they arrive. We’ll spend the majority of their week here lounging and enjoying one another’s company. I’m excited for the bustle that’s about to fill the house.

Other than that, though, it is business as usual; my training at Mimi’s ends tomorrow and work at Lonestar is as usual. I’m off to the doctor’s, darlings. Cheers.

I walk in and out of the library's isle and listen to the rain of the outdoors softly resound through the building. The thick walls and layers of cement strip the sound of any definition; the soft tapping resembles the crackling of an old record player much more than drops of rain. The floor to ceiling glass that encases the library, however, offers any lost description needed to aid any potential confusion. One look in any direction: south, northeast, southwest, west, any direction one could prefer would display a window, long, thick and yellowed, set in heavy panels around the building, ready to reveal the mystery of that strange clicking, ready to rob one of his or her silly suspicions and tell you the truth: it is raining outside.

The rain has subsided but has left the air damp, damp and solid, and even from the massive, air-conditioned indoors of this monmouth building can I feel the moisture. I am steeling time, as always, and as I wait for Cindy's niece (my cousin?) to finish browsing I am writing. The informational, omnipresent windows remind me continually that today has been an overcast, gray day, and that it has treated me well. Work at mimi's was pleasant and uplifting due to my discovery of the fair amount of money I'll be making. The work was fine and I have the evening off, during which Bryan and I have plans to visit the cinema, and this seemingly dark day has been remarkably happy. This stormy weather and the silly complaints it has inspired please me quite a bit, and in this rusted city a murky sky is appropriate in the most indescribable of ways. The city is fresh and ready to meet me, ready to provoke my curiosity and occupy a manic mind. This mood will cling to me for a day or two and sit atop my shoulder, accompany my exploits and my observation, even though my contentment lies only in the remembrance of recent rain.

I encountered a plethora of pleasant surprises today: due to a kind heart and honest character- two characteristics I've never really understood- the man that came to fix a small crack in my car's windshield didn't charge me the fifty dollars I was expecting to pay, and I received my first check which was much larger than expected. Also, I walked with thirty-two dollars today, which isn't bad. I've decided against mowing down every employee and guest at lonestar with an assault riffle at any rate, so in a way decent tippers have preserved my humanity. Hopefully the preservation will hold strong through the night and bless the second half of my double shift with success via beautiful, beautiful money. Huzzah, I say: bills shall be paid.

That is where the elation ends, however, because my eating habits today have been as licentious as ever, marked by random steak fries I skillfully embezzled and devoured during lunch as well as three too many tortillas I ate afterward. I am not hungrier than usual, I simply haven't felt satiated as of late. I have constructed a conspiracy theory to explain this, though it's somewhat of a stupid one. To wit: on Saturday Bryan and I went out for Mexican food and my stomach subsequently stretched thrice its normal size- god, I ate so much food, SO MUCH food; him and I both passed out the moment we came home in a desperate attempt to recover- and the days following have left me feeling hungrier than usual. Therefore, it is all Bryan's fault. Curses on his head!

*shakes a coiled fist at the sky*

Hopefully this period of gluttonous excess will pass soon and I can continue looking tiny. It doesn't help that I work in a restaurant where a fry bin the size of a small house is continually at the ready. I must summon the deep inner strength I've never managed to locate. Surely it is within me somewhere.

This is going to make Bryan very happy.

I leave for work in half an hour- I think I do; I forgot to double check my schedule before I left work yesterday, so I'm not too sure- and I'm not too thrilled by the prospects today's lunch holds for me. Yesterday I worked for two and a half hours and, well, the shift didn't exactly make me rich; I walked with two dollars and forty-three cents. I kid you not, two dollars and forty-three cents.

I begin orientation at mimi's on Thursday and can only pray that they have forty hours a week for me so that I can escape the astronomically depressing grasps of Lonestar. We shall see come Thursday, I suppose.

Yesterday I had a lovely evening with Bryan; we started watching the incredibles, which, as I had expected, he adored, and we also rebelliously climbed onto his building's rooftop to watch the sunset cast its red glow on the slums of over-the-rhine. His building manager is finally installing a window fan in his apartment today to ease the annoyance of the unbearable heat and lack of circulation. Bryan has been suffering through sinus infection after sinus infection, poor boy, and hopefully this will help that as well.

Though I have remained quite diligent in my exercise, this past week has been marked by an insatiable craving for sweets and the like, and the scale is just beginning to show it. I've lost weight and am currently sitting pretty at 130. I'd like to stay that way, so I must discipline myself and stop eating when I'm not hungry.

Work beckons me, most unfortunately, so I will go and hope that the spoils render themselves more generously than those of yesterday. Honestly; two dollars and forty-three cents. That won't even buy me a bloody tank of gas.

Huzzah, huzzah I say: employment at mimi's has been procured.

I win.

My employment at Lonestar has brought a couple interesting characteristics of my personality to light:

-I don't like old people.
-I don't like young people.
-I don't like frugal people.
-I don't, generally, like poor people.
-I don't like people who for some inexplicable reason believe in mental math.

Basically, only hungry, middle-aged business men who also happen to be alcoholics and have a preference for lobster should be allowed to leave their houses.

For all of you darlings who are bold enough to admit that you, like me, are still confused, I give you clarity.

“Like every other intellectual, he's intensely stupid.”

-Taken from Dangerous Liaisons

Today I gave the morning the freedom I usually blockade with chores and errands and time restraints. I lounged in my sleep wear for a bit as I waited for motivation to swell within me; when it never came I contented myself with a leisurely cup of black coffee and a hour or Hesse's Stepenwolf, that, though enjoyed, only received half of my attention due to the occupation aimless thoughts held over my mind. Every twenty minutes or so I found myself pondering last night's dream, tossing the disconnected memories here and there as if I were mulling about in a mysterious pond that failed to spark my interest or concern. I remember leaving for the airport after visiting the house I currently live in, and my father trying to package a bicycle I wished to take with me. I often dream of the airport and the rush of catching a plane, and more than once I've missed it and found myself stranded in the most bizarre lounges and coffee shops, with no task to distract me but the observation of the random, unearthly shapes and colors of my surroundings.

I didn't wish insult the book with a distracted mind, so I set it down on the table next to the chair I was sitting in. I smiled faintly at the sight of it; the cup that had once contained my coffee was now empty and sported dry streaks of the drink that had spilled over the cup during its use, and had tainted the clean facade of the white mug as it ran carelessly down and settled in the saucer beneath. A crumpled granola bar wrapper sat next to it, opposite the corner that had been ripped off and placed on the saucer, and the open, face down book lay close by. The objects completely filled the small end table with that comfortable chaos that so often in life we try to eradicate, yet in the description of our lives we preposterously try to replicate. I was amused to think of the steppenwolf's remarks on bourgeois cleanliness, the admitted admiration yet disdain he felt for the common person's obsession with the small things. My amusement rekindled when I found a basket beneath my bathroom sink that Cindy had placed there to further encourage organization, though she seldom used that particular bathroom, and though the bottles of lotion and scent and product were hidden in such obscure, dusty bowels of the house that only by accident or error could a visitor every discover the objects and the organization their numbers lacked. I obliged her and set my things neatly in a basket and cleaned the rest of the cabinet, dutifully erasing signs of life and movement and disorder that might give evidence that people live in the house. Why is it, I wonder, that our sterile ideals lay so opposite any sort of reality? We are human beings, with interests and occupations, and the spaces that house us should only logically reflect our movements. The virtue of picking up dirty dishes is axiomatic, as is the disposal of trash and wrappers and the such. The determination of some to leave no trace behind, however, leaves me utterly confounded.

The morning has been pleasant but now must unfortunately yield to the necessary distraction of responsibility. I have an interview at 2:30 at mimi's that I hope will bring an end in sight to my employment at Lonestar Steakhouse and Saloon. I accepted a job at Lonestar because they offered to let me serve, and though the experience is valuable it is miserable. Mimi's holds the potential for more money and a better atmosphere, so I am excited and hopeful. I must return to my Texan purgatory at 5:00, however, when my shift begins. Until then I'll be quite busy filling my afternoon with the little things, because I, like every other human being around me, have an obsession with the inane.

A long, pleasant conversation with Elisse yesterday brought to light, yet once again, a despondent inadequacy that quietly berates me as I slip into the busy rhythm of the summer, a rhythm defined by the joy and responsibility of work, relationships, and the general upkeep needs that play metronome to my life. Her and I share the frustrations that are concocted when two writers, both dependent on the painfully gained yet seductive edification of their muse, can't find time to write.

We're different, her and I, as is our writing; she understandably takes her work seriously and ferociously toils towards perfection, whereas I, though proud of my talent and the subsequent writing, find joy in the deluge I spill onto the pages on my screen, however incoherent or sloppy, and am a proud addict of raw expression. It is my therapy and the overseer that tames my madness; it slowly organizes a very hyperactive and overwhelmed mind. The final result is at times impressive, and at other times lazy in the most banal of ways, but calming and pleasing all the same. It is sad to look upon my blog and be met only by last month's dates, and even sadder when the lurking realization finally pounces: the thousands of moments that have touched me in the past two fortnights, whether comical or profound in nature, have slipped past me. Inspiration is there; it always is, as is the material and anecdotes that makes the writing process easier- especially when one spends fifty hours a week in the most extreme of all sociological studies: the service industry- yet the unpredictable amount of uninterrupted time is hard to come by. When I am not working, associating with associates, or maintaining the technical details of my life, I am exhausted. After work I creep to the couch, slathered in guilt, and wait to unwind as I sit through mindless programming, anxious to feel creative again and energized. I am always a bit annoyed to find that responsibility always presents itself the moment that energy comes jogging round the corner.

Writing is a hobby and an activity and must be scheduled as such. It is difficult in this world; bills must come before leisure, however necessary and productive the leisure might be, unless you want an angry landlord to come later. Only the master planner gets everything done, and a master planner I am not. A master planner, however, is what I will become. I must. I yearn too desperately for the familiar affection of the keys of my keyboard, as well as the satisfaction I am filled with every time I read the words I have written, be those witty, silly, stupid, misspelled, brilliant or naïve.

Through this space steel beams extend,
racing towards so quickly,
things that lie beyond the end
of these walls that sit around me,
high they soar, sick, thick and bitter,
by night their sight shows faintly,
but come the day they aptly litter
The walls that sit around me
with limpid shadows now observed
that quickly fade to nothing,
nothing but the walls that curve
and thickly sit around me.
The windows cased above this place
frame gray skies discreetly,
through the panes morn is displaced
and softly comes to meet me.
I am in your bed, once again,
indifferently thinking,
of perfection that has found mend,
of the walls that sit around me.
formless, unpoetic joy,
my skin between your bed sheets,
I am here, I won't destroy
the walls that sit around me.

The calm that has fled my life these past two weeks is slowly creeping back; moments ago I finished putting my new room together after hours of cleaning, organizing, folding and disposing, and soon, hopefully tomorrow I will have a new job and thus abate my monetary worriments. Today I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon with Bryan and facilely helped him brainstorm the décor of his his apartment, and the ease of the day symbolically finalized the leave of the past fortnight's discord. I have slipped back into my preferred norm as if I were a pond, ready to once again settle after the wind has sent ripples of discomfort and past remembrances up and around my existence. Here things are: simple, minimal, clean and easy, just as I left them, ready to be picked up and put back in place.

Elisse made a rather clever observation while I was back in Zion, one that has occupied my thoughts for a while and has yet to leave me. During my return to salt lake and the discomfort of my life there- a discomfort built by confrontations with my mother, the church, and the inactivity of Salt Lake in general- I was distressed by my incommodious surroundings but survived regardless until the last couple of days; these days were marked by what once could call an emotional breakdown. This emotional breakdown occurred on a public bus, canceled my involvement in a family portrait and lasted for two and a half days. As fervently as I attempted to reassure myself that the instability stemmed from external factors- those being the different atmosphere, sleep deprivation, and a drastic change in eating habits- Elisse brought a simple fact to light: if the tranquility I had found in Cincinnati was truly a byproduct of peace of self as opposed to peace of surrounding, why did it flee the moment I left the city? Why was I still unable to handle the stress of my family and friends in Salt Lake? Has my maturity genuinely grown or have I simply eliminated the aspects of life that challenge my capabilities?

At first this terrified me; for some reason I felt as if all I have acquired this past year had been invalidated, and the peace that I have battled for so desperately is nothing more than self deceit. As I nestle back into my home, however, I realize the contrary; I have removed what I know to be especially bad for me and I've let the rest of my talents flourish. Simply because I have taught myself how to manage necessary stresses does not mean that my life is without stress. As I look back over the past year I realize that my accomplishments are not few; two full semesters completed with a 3.8 and 4.0, work to which I have devoted myself and earned boasting recommendations from two managers at a prestigious restaurant, a relationship that I steadily and healthily nourish, a car that has never, for a single moment, been anything but spotless, and a lifestyle that is consistently orderly. I recognize that though my emotional maturity has grown boundlessly, it is still dwarfed by my youth and my stubbornness. I am growing in many ways, and despite the areas of my personality that still wait for evolution, my life is developing, not stagnating, however comfortable it may appear. Elisse was certainly a strength for me while I was there. It is good to have her, as it always is, and I suppose she helped remind me to take the steps that I need to take to feel fulfilled. We all hold ourselves back in one way or another, and though this will never make us happy we must remember that internal change can only come gradually.

Contrary to popular opinion, I am alive and well. I went to Salt Lake and returned three days ago with many, many stories yet little to say. Perhaps I'll write about it sometime, perhaps not. We shall see, dear readers.

This evening I accompanied dad and Cindy to yet another fabulous Over The Rhine concert. With the exception of the alarmingly low temperature in the auditorium, everything was perfect, as expected.

Today I also went job hunting. I'll be the first to admit it: I've been careless lately. I figured it was safe to quit the Chart House without another job lined up because I didn't feel like getting shifts covered for my trip to salt lake. I now have a grand thirty-four dollars to my name. Granted, I don't have any bills coming up soon, but it takes more than thirty-four dollars to fill up my car, which currently has an empty tank. Even if I find a job immediately, I probably won't see any money for a week or so. I'll be fine, I suppose- I wouldn't say otherwise, regardless, because what will benefit me now more than anything is blind optimism, so thus is my choice- but I hate cutting things so close. The following indulgences with have to be forsaken for the next fortnight: spontaneous outings for coffee, food, parking meters, and gas. My frugality shall prevail!

The sweet smell of completion…

Five minutes ago I completed my last exam. I finished, and I finished well, ready to leave the comfort of a mediocre campus and eager to push forward. Don’t mind the future, my darling, let’s just focus on what is important at this moment in time: I’m done for now.

I suppose the declaration that I shot myself in the foot numerous times this week is not exactly a true one, but only because it might misguidedly suggest that I still have feet left, which, unfortunately, is not the case. As I look down at the smoldering, twisted and alarmingly small stumps of burnt flesh that sit ungainly where my feet once were I realize that they unmistakably no longer qualify as normal human appendages. Toes are a concept of the past now unbeknownst to me, and the revolting agglomeration of exposed bone and blue, budging veins that perch on the end of my legs have forever whisked away the delight of fun, strappy heels. To wit:

-I thought I had exempted myself from the final exam in my race and gender class. But alas! To my horror and explosive fury I was informed that an 89.7% is not an A in the lurid, illogical mind of a certain professor Binney. Thus I was forced to write a seven-page discourse on the three branches of government and explain which is most beneficial to the civil rights of African Americans. I haven't attended class in two weeks and no longer have the book we were supposed to use as our main resource. I finished the paper fifteen minutes ago, but I want you to know that if I believed in such a place and had the necessary power, I would send our dear professor Binney straight to hell. And make him wear plaid high waters and a wicker sports bra while rubbing Donald Rumsfeld's disgusting feet. FOREVER.

-On Wednesday I unloaded four pages of sociological bullshit on my history of aviation essay. I could have skillfully answered the question with material that was actually relevant. I am a dumb ass, however, so I ranted about biological determinism instead. Regrettably, Only upon recollection did I realize my state of eternal dumbassness.

-I was given a $134 speeding ticket for driving 24 mph over the speed limit on what is notoriously known as the most harshly patrolled stretch of highway in Ohio. God, I know I'm a dumb ass, okay? Just leave me alone. Leave me and my sad little pulverized feet alone.

While reading this please keep in mind that it is 2:30 in the morning, and that any spelling error and/or complete incoherence should be attributed to the ungodly hour of the morn. Or the fact that I'm a complete dumb ass. Either one, really, should be able to explain my inability to function normally.

brilliance.

This just in:

- This fabulous wine and coffee shop has tango dancing every Thursdays, and I think Bryan and I might attend tonight. We're becoming very involved in the dance, and have been dancing for... 14 weeks? Already? Huh. So we have. Feels as if we started yesterday, but we're learning ocho and ocho milongero and are easily the best in the class. The class of a whole wopping three couples.

- Today I travel up to my father's house to practice piano and bask in the sunlight. Huzzah.

- I think I am developing an eye infection.

That is all.

My classes are coming to conclusion rather abruptly; it seems as if my eyelashes had barely brushed my cheek but once to blink, and suddenly I’m completely finished with all classes but two. I have exempted myself from my race and gender final as well as my art history final by averaging over a ninety-six on my previous exams, and my honors composition class hasn’t a final or concluding activity, thank god. The two finals that I do have to take are in my History of Aviation class and my American History class, unfortunately, so I will have to commit myself to refraining from mixing up dates and facts. I’m not too worried about either final, however, and I have the beginning of next week to prepare for both, so the pressure one would normally expect from finals week is completely nonexistent.

I don’t mourn the absence of absolute bedlam in my last week at this university, but this chapter of my life is coming to a close so silently and composedly that I don’t quite know what to think. Even though this period of my life is characterized by several adjustments and changes- changing universities and beginning anew at the DAAP program, moving thirty minutes northward into my father’s new house and finding a new job accordingly- the lack of disruption in my life is unsettling. Though I have not yet left northern Kentucky, the comfort provided by the knowledge of the visual features of the town has already begun to subside as if high tide has come and now must go, and the snug complacency that once washed over me is creeping back to its mother ocean and the individuals chosen to enjoy it. My father’s house is empty and therefore different, and the thrill of having my own space is overwhelmed by the calloused touch of a couch that is never sat on and the absence of the noises of my father’s tinkering in the basement. I am a creature of comfort, but my emotional ties are proving more flexible that I thought them to be. I can always visit past places and therefore must not mourn transition; Schneider’s Ice cream parlor will still be in Bellevue even though I am not. It will not be the same, of course, as it once was, but that is the nature of change and progression. We would be foolish to cling forever to certain periods of our lives, for all moments in time were born simply to change and define us and to then end.

The next time someone offers you a free, delicious slab of prime rib when you're working, just say no.

cow + labor = bad.

Today found me without my car and with nothing to do, nothing, that is, but laundry, dishes, and organizing. I wish to be a minimalist, and despite my desire and relative success, I still find myself with one small box of things that I'll never use yet can't bear to throw away. I suppose the amount of useless treasure which to myself is espoused is laudable, if compared to the houses and rooms full of junk that most people claim, as is the nature of these ineradicable objects: books and textbooks, school supplies, and my sentimental memorabilia whose number I regulate most severely, yet guilt pounds through my mind unmercifully every time a glance is timidly thrown towards the corner in which this small box resides. The letters and bits of sentiment are seldom read but can never be thrown away, much like my books. The eighteenth-century pornography literature that I was required to buy for my analysis of pornography class are books that the bookstore will not buy back, and I would feel like a lecherous smut peddler if I distastefully gave them to goodwill. Unfortunately, it is a matter of principle, as is every other issue that speckles my livelihood: I simply cannot bring myself to throw away books, regardless of their nature, and I refuse to sell back a $135 calculus textbook for thirteen dollars, even if it is somewhat pretentious and pointless to keep it. And pretentious it truly is; I have every intention of putting that textbook on my bookcase, though I'll never, ever use it, because I would like to fancy myself as the type of individual in need of a good calculus book, though nothing could be so indubitably farther from the truth. And though I am a passionate reader, I keep the books that I did not enjoy, and I even keep the books that I absolutely loathed so that the occasional visitor to my abode might be bamboozled into thinking that I'm well-rounded. The reasons for my keeping these items is almost as shameful as the fact that I stubbornly keep them.

With the exception of the school supplies, whose potential use is infinitely more promising than any other of the box's inhabitants, I know I will never open the box. It will slowly collect dust and the unequivocal, stale fragrance of old age as it sits and sits and sits with nothing to do and no service to provide. I will move from one city to the next and curse under my breath as I heave it along, and allot it precious closet space in various tiny apartments. To my nature I will stay true; simple, minimal furniture will adorn my future spaces, and my ability to avoid the purchase of unpurposed items will not wane, but the one manifestation of my fault will always be that wretched box. Its contrary, inescapable nature will be the filmy, pale blue eye of my existence, and instead of a heart beneath my floorboards I shall forever have a cardboard coffer in my closet.

Rob comes home from his mission on May 6th and today I bought my ticket to go greet him. Gone is the excitement, or even the pleasure of visiting Salt Lake; enough time has passed to rob the city of the comfort of familiarity it once provided me. For some time after I had come to a new point of view the city was still comfortable; notable difference of opinion and belief surged through the faces of the city, the buses, and the buildings, but the sidewalks and front lawns and the dry air that fell around me still felt like home. Now gone is the domicile, I know, and gone is the placation of once-friendly paths and commonplace gathering places. There is nothing but my family and Elisse, and everything else with be horribly awkward. This prophecy swelled in my stomach as I purchased the ticket, knowing all too well that come May eleventh or so I'll be cursing myself for deciding to stay eight days, but, in my traditional strategy for dealing with family, I've picked blind optimism over realistic precision. That is not to say, however, that relations have not improved; mum and I are on good terms, regardless of the completely uncalled for, malicious message she left for dad after we forgot to make Ricky go to church the week he stayed here. I'm also excited to see Rob again, even though he's apparently coming home a hyper-conservative Bush fanatic. To each his own, I say, and as long as mutual respect is present I won't point out how profoundly thick-witted you have to be to support bushie right now. Our president is going to need much a bigger threat than “terrorism” to scare me into supporting him. Sorry, mates.

Elisse will be there, thankfully, to steal me away to poetry readings and fantastically caffeinated coffee shops when the pressure of the crazy mormons is too much to bear. I think I will survive my eight days, seven nights in the unworldly oddity that is Salt Lake City.

Today, as well as purchase a ticket, I confirmed my acceptance to the UC. I have to admit: I'm pretty proud of myself and incalculably excited. The DAAP program is second in the nation for industrial design, and I will emerge an over-educated, under-paid ketchup bottle designer. I also get to save all summer for a beautiful ibook, which, though I am a PC girl, is a fun thing nonetheless. Huzzah.

By the way, Nepal became a democracy today. They probably figured that they might as well give in before bushie decides to “liberate” them. I must dash now, darlings, but I will write later. The weather here is fine and the workless weekend awaits me. Cheers

I'm suffering through an art history paper, in which I simply have to describe a piece of artwork and somehow wrangle out four pages. I kid you not, I just wrote this:

"The shape of the pot is that of an amphora, the majority of the painting is done where the width is the widest"....

My dignity has just been shot to hell, then trampled on by obese demons before being set on fire. They're pissing on the smouldering ashes as we speak.

This is L.A Roberts' "Yosemite Valley", and sadly is the only picture of this painting I could find. Know, dear readers, that this does no justice whatsoever to the original work; the color is muted and the idiot photographer cut off half the painting. I wanted a demonstration of his work, however, so I will post it regardless.

Works of Eyvind Earle, courtesy of gallery21.com

The Cincinnati Art Museum is something of a solace to me; I frequent the place weekly and have my favorite rooms and paintings that I visit regularly. My favorites, by far, are the two paintings done by the mysterious L.A Roberts. Despite exhausting research attempts, no one knows who he was, male or female, from where she or he came, or what training the artist had, if any at all. All we have of L.A Roberts is two large, implausibly beautiful landscapes painted in bright, almost cartoonish colors and idealized shapes that have captured my heart and imagination completely.

Thanks to the site Cherry Coloured I stumbled upon the work of Eyvind Earle, and was immediately reminded of my darling L.A Roberts. The vibrance of the pieces, and the cartoonish, dreamy aura of the world he paints has left me in awe. I love this style of painting: the color, the shapes, the texture. I know it's a brash, inconsiderate action to post pictures of his paintings directly on my blog, but I can't resist. Forgive me, Eyvind!

The city around me has started to bloom and push forward, and the contours of the streets and boundaries are obscured and changed into something else by the lively growth of greens and all shades of red. The dirt of Bellevue and her Kentucky inhabitants is now overwhelmed by the acres of luscious grass and full, robust trees. Winter in Cincinnati bears no resemblance to the Cincinnati spring offers to me; once cold months have loosened their grip on the city it becomes all too familiar; the new scenery that greets me, the smell of damp life and sweet grass, as well as the well-known musty scent of concrete walls cooling down after hours of baking in the sun transform this city into an old friend, a well-worn sweater, an inviting, comfortable, familiar place that can truly be called home. The humidity is so thick that I could slice through it and serve it on a platter, and my pores have swelled with a heat rash that covers my body. Though my unsettled skin has yet to adjust to the change, my mind and spirit is relieved and overjoyed. I am a child of the sun and of the moist grass beneath it, my shoulders and feet are meant to be bare and littered with the sparse, salty scent of sweat. I feel most comfortable sprawled out in the back yard of a stranger.

It appears that my immune system skipped work today to go marching with all the others for immigrant rights, because I feel like shit. I don't think I'll say anything to my immune system, however, because I support immigrant rights, oppose the posed legislation the marchers are trying to fight, and believe that activism is a necessity. I feel wretched, and can now sympathize with all the anti-marchers that had to wait an extra 4 hours to get an oil change or some such service, but all in all I am proud of my immune system, and wish it the best of luck. I suppose a runny nose, sore throat, and body aches are a small price to pay. Wave that Norwegian flag high, my friend.

Ricky comes today, and I couldn't be more thrilled. He's sicker than I am, however, with a nasty bout of strep throat. It will be an interesting visit, what with all the belligerent illnesses running rampant about the family, but I am glad to see him all the same, even if it will involve nursing him back to health the entire visit.

By the way... I found out today that I was accepted into the University of Cincinnati's Industrial Design program. Just thought I would let you know....

The sun shines brightly outside, though the wind is a bit nippy at times. If I sit still enough on a park bench or on the lawn, the sun beats down on me and warms me to the point of deception; I feel as if summer encircles me and it’s time again to visit Eden Park. The past couple of days have teased me so viciously, taunting me with a world lit up by the genial sky and grass that slowly grows greener and greener, but the moment I step outside the brisk air rejects my desperate attempts to fraternize and I am forced back indoors by my desire for placid comfort. From my living room window I examine the world outside of the little brick box of my father’s house, and I scowl at its pointless beguilement. I know better than to feel invited by the festive rays of that brutish, crude sun that refuses to lend ear to hospitality, propriety, or social pressures. If this were an epoch of decency the sun would swell with comfortable warmth, curl her hair, press her dress and invite me outside for cucumber sandwiches and gunpowder tea. Instead she mulls about outside in the most tasteless of manners, refusing to heat the world to sun-dress weather. I sit in front of my living room window and scowl a self righteous, pious scowl. Despite the many grievances the sun has provided me, I’ve decided against spreading ignominious rumors about her at the beauty parlor involving the pool boy and a hair barrette. Cucumber sandwiches or not, my mother raised me right.

All is well, darlings, and nothing too eventful has happened. Bryan and I drove down to Durham, North Carolina last weekend and the trip went well. I met his friends whom had come from all over the country to celebrate another friend's birthday, and I didn't even stop loving him when he and his old band mates cleared out the dining room, set up their amps, and hopped about the room while playing their old music drunkenly, happily, and out of tune. The crowd was an eclectic collection of old college friends who had all turned into architects, engineers, and designers, with the exception of one pizza-delivery man. Seeing that I hope to go into design it suffices to say that the connections established are priceless. Free pizza, here I come.

My rejection letter from the UC still hasn't come. Bastards. How dare they draw out this annoying process. On the upside, it's warm and sunny outside, so now I can wait by the mailbox in a plastic lawn chair with endless amounts of class and refinement for my rejection letter. If only I had a wife-beater and a shotgun to complete the delicate ensemble.

I need to go grocery shopping now. Please don't take this as rejection, my bumpkins; if the choice is between food and you, you can't really expect me to keep on writing. There are calories that need consumin', after all.

How? How, I ask you? In the name of camisoles, brie, and all else that is holy, how? How has the dog's hair, who has never, ever been in my car, become threaded through the interior of my automobile? How, I ask you? How?

It's important that I wander about barefoot, that the soles of my feet, soft and supple after a winter indoors, press upon the raw earth and feel its intensity as they become dirty and carelessly calloused again. It's vital that I stay true to my nature, which is not one of manufactured, sweet scents and scrubbed skin, but rather is filled with my own scent, the smell of my hair and my eternal insistence on lying on the ground, sitting on the floor, sprawling on the asphalt driveway, blissfully sprinkling the sun upon my skin and drinking the sounds of the twittering birds as if they were wine. I'm always dirty in the summer and my skin is always smudged in one place or another. Those who love me and know me best are familiar with my seasonal antics, and they adore me for it. They love the smell of the earth on my body, my crumpled, wild, thrown-together hair, my feet that glisten with indifference and the freckles that splatter upon my nose, my cheeks, my shoulders, and randomly about my bodice, marking me as fair, familiar, erratic and forever distinct.

Update:


-yesterday I talked to the professor in charge of DAAP admissions. He didn't really say anything, but I don't think I'm going to get in. Initially I burst into tears, but then realized that this might be my golden opportunity to go into a field in which there is more money. I was immediately consoled.

-I have two massive exams coming next week, both of which I've kind of already studied for. Kind of.

-This weekend I embark on a 3 day long road trip. Wish me luck.

-I have yet to finish catch-22.

-I think I'm developing a nervous disorder. I'm not particularly happy about this, but it would make a lot of sense if that is, indeed, the direction I'm heading. Who am I to resist fate?

-I am wonderfully broke at the moment. After the road trip and Bryan's birthday, I'll be riding that little line between red and black pretty damn hard. Huzzah.

-I want to write, I really do. I'm simply too busy, too worried, too unhappy with everything I do manage to write. Forgive me, my darlings, and take pity.


That is all.

The trick, dearest friend, is to spend one's time wisely. It sounds simple, and I suppose it might be, but if it truly sounds simple then I don't think I'm getting my point across. The trick is to spend your time in the most wisest of all ways possible, to conspire against the clock as if it were your worshiped, important yet neglected, sparkling little enemy, and brilliantly weigh in effort-to-return ratios with skill and slight doses of panache. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.

For example: popcorn.

I find nothing more laborious in the world than standing next to the microwave with my eyebrows pulled together, my head resting in clenched hands as I desperately struggle to decipher the pops and crackles coming from the contraption. I can never decide when it's done. The task is not as simple as the bright package claims it to be; the pops are never clear, the buzzing of the appliance muddles the vital translation, and right when you think one second has elapsed between pops a muffled fizzle rings through the air and leaves you completely confused.

The solution is a simple one: undercook the popcorn. Yes, the package states four minutes, but you risk scorching the delicious little morsels by following the vague directions. If one settles on a nice, round, three minutes, however, the task is accomplished! Half the bag goes uncooked, I realize, but I clearly stated that sacrifices must be made a couple paragraphs ago and now is the time to sacrifice, and popcorn kernels are the burnt offerings to be placed on the alter and offered. Don't be fooled by the popcorn button; the fate of any bag of popcorn subjected to the roughish popcorn button is too horrific to be mentioned here. Resist, my stallions! Do what must be done and under cook the damn popcorn.

Not that I know anything about cooking popcorn, mind you; I just tried said challenge and managed nothing more than a shriveled, smoldering burnt bag in which no corn was popped. I'm pretty sure I'm onto something with this three-minute thing, though, pretty damn sure....

“If you approach the problem and say, “We know what is right and we would like to use the atomic bomb to persuade you to agree with us,” then you are in a very weak position and you will not succeed, because under those conditions you will not succeed in delegating responsibility for the survival of men. It is a purely unilateral statement; you will find yourselves attempting by force of arms to prevent a disaster.”

-J. Robert Oppenheimer, head of the Manhattan Project and key creator of the atomic bomb.

*Sigh*. How incredibly profound. If only President Bush had taken a history class or two...

Oh irony, you heathen, you cur! You blasphemous, bitter little thing! How unexpected you always are...

I recently placed a bid on ebay for a Sony Ericsson phone. 2 days later I realized that phone numero uno had defied rhyme, reason, and the evil scheme of the cellular companies, and is now completely functional! I was told by every tmobile employee I visited that no, cell phones really aren't built to withstand a thorough hosing-down at the car wash. I believed them, set the little one to rest in one of my many purses, and proceeded to bid on a very pricey one.

So I now have one working phone, and one coming that I don't need (and can't really afford). And, you know, a $500 car insurance payment due on the 15th.

This will be fun.

I don't think I've ever been this happy with my body. Yes, an unforgiving arrogance has always dominated the personality I project, yet I've always had numerous qualms with the reflection the mirror gives me.

Now, however, the mirror bows before me. I've come into my own; my stomach is not completely flabless, but is toned; my frame looks a little more lithe, yet my curves persist gallantly. Swimsuit season no longer stands on the horizon and haunts me, but rather teases me as I wait. Bring on the swimsuits! Bring on flirty summer dresses! Bring on lavish summer fashions!

I'll be waiting.

Oh, I don't think I told you.

Elisse and I are back on good terms again. I'm extremely happy with this, because she's my best friend and I adore her dearly, and I need her, quite frankly. It's nice calling her up. Though our lives and the lives of others will transform in the most magnificent ways, wheeling and turning as the sidewalk spins out of control beneath them, there are a select few individuals with whom an unyielding connection will always stand. No matter the years that pass, if we come back to contact with these certain people, deep in the heart of the conversation we will find the familiar intonations and thoughts and spirit that were there before.

Magnificent, that.

Anyway, Elisse is in the midst of a messy break-up with Carter, and I'm worried about her. They are no longer together, but she will always feel a connection with him. Things will work out, she'll be fine, and she might even be able to enjoy cheesecake again in the near future, if all goes well. Until then I can do nothing but worry about her.

There are certain parts of this depthless society that confuse me; among these being the crusade against a woman's curves, pubic hair, and natural state in general. Though the former is a serious issue, one which ravages the country with eating disorders and the theft of female confidence, the latter can be seen as trivial but annoying all the same; who the fuck decided that a woman's pubic hair is a bad thing?

Is there no grace to the womanly fuzz that naturally dons the area? Does it not soften the figure as the stomach gently slopes to soft, rich, protective curls? Is there a reason we wish to erase the calculating characteristics that separate grown women from underdeveloped girls? Tell me, Howard Stern, askmen.com, select individuals guiding the societal trends, tell me: what is wrong with pubic hair? I am a vain woman, a very vain woman; I gleefully endure the harsh rituals of eyebrow-plucking, leg/armpit shaving, and hours of primping that are commanded by society's perception of femininity, and I do them because I appreciate the end result just as much as the men around me. The vain formalities listed above make sense to me, though I never fail to gripe about them. The ritual of Brazilian wax, however, confounds me completely; how is a naked, hairless vagina remotely enticing? I understand that trimming certainly has its aesthetic benefits, but robbing a woman entirely of her cushioning tuft seems completely illogical.

I am glad Bryan respects and adores a woman's natural beauty, because if anyone expects me to go a-shavin' the nether regions then they're out of their mind. Any woman who has the money and time to spend $150 and 3 hours a month at the salon desperately needs a hobby. Like scrap booking, that ironically enough, despite all its useless puddles of uselessness, is 5 times as productive as waxing.

Anyone who thinks that fashion is just about the clothes is an idiot.

I can think of a time, sometime in late summer of a past year, that I lied sprawled in the grass of Eden Park. The day wasn't particularly stunning; the grass was patchy in places of the park and dull from the merciless sun, the sky was a pretty blue but wasn't extraordinary, and the day shone with a rather harsh glare- if I were making a movie I think I would have told the cinematographer to change the lens of the camera- but overall the day was pleasant and the air light. I sat on the ground and the grass cradled my body and felt comfortable beneath me, and as I rested my eyes on the blue of the sky I felt a sense of belonging; perhaps this world wasn't created for me, but I certainly belong in it, right here beneath the sky, above the grass, and between the paved pathways that scurvily frame the park. I am meant to be happy, I am meant to find my own way to that happiness, and I am meant to respect the ways of others to the best of my ability. I was built to adore the curves of Columbia Parkway, I was built to make myself laugh in the stupidest ways, I was built to foster morbid displeasure with Sylvia Plath's writing. Though these things may seem trivial, they are the things I observe most often, and are therefore the concentration of my reality. I am not one for the jagged confines of organized religion; I have faith in my intuition. I accept that I am fated to change, that I change daily, and that I am bound to contradict everything I've ever said at least once. If everyone is required have a religion, then that is mine.

I was exhausted and frustrated when I wrote this post. I don't feel like rereading it or checking the spelling, much less the content, so if you are either my elder brother or my mother, and you don't feel like being offended, don't read the post. Quite simple, you have to admit. It might be rash to publish this, but I have discovered that is important to address our frustrations, and it is important to state them aloud. So, without any further delay, I present to you my collection o' bitching....


Today, in a sense, Bryan gently criticized the vanity from which I felt a need to post a picture of myself. His comment has necessitated a disclaimer, which follows as such:

Firstly: I write primarily for myself and myself alone. Though yes, my blog does serve as means of connection and general description of my state of being to those interested, I ultimately write because I believe in journals; I believe in documentation. My current appearance is, after all, a general description of my state of being. A blog is an extremely effective and easily accessible way to sort and store said information, which, on occasion, includes pictures, and many of the pictures I posted months and months ago now exist solely on my blog; the initial origin of these images have been sucked into infinite cyberspace and the inevitable omnipotence of my messiness. The wisdom of my posting them has therefore been proved, and I will continue to post.

Secondly: I realize that Bryan's criticism stem not from my desire to document but rather from the vain nature of the picture, and I understand why; much of our culture is obsessed with illusions of humility. I, however, am not; I choose to dwell in illusions of absolute and total supremacy instead. Why deny my vanity when I could swim in it? Not only am I the coolest thing since sliced bread, but I am, dare I say it, even cooler than sliced bread. The sun may not revolve around me, but my existence most certainly does. I'm hot and I want y'all to know it.

While I'm arrogantly ranting on about my inescapable coolness, here's another issue for you: my darling elder brother fears that I am making religious mistakes, and also, on a less important note, that I know not the meaning of the words I use. I recently discovered this via the very private letters he sends to mom, that she, in turn, quite tactfully publishes on his blog (are we all detecting the bounteous sarcasm? Good.) I am officially pissed off and will now write an equally insulting and public opinion in retort:

“To whom it may concern,

It has come to my knowledge than quite a few individuals in the golden city of Salt Lake (plus one in Zürich) are worried about the spiritual condition of my eternal soul, and have begun to ponder the possible cause of my total and tragic fall from the straight and narrow path of mormonism. At this time I would like to issue a status quo report regarding my eternal soul and the spiritual condition thereof: I no longer practice mormonism or affiliate myself with the religion because I recently discovered that mormon doctrine is entirely self-refuting. The pity extended by these individuals is insulting because I am, for the first time in my young adult life, happy. I wouldn't dream of having the audacity to ask said individuals to forsake their needless concern and accept my decisions, however, because that would imply that they would have to stop gossiping about me. This would prove to be quite the travesty because if they stop gossiping, after all, they will have nothing left to do but think, which is not an activity condoned by the mormon church or its members. I do not wish discord to completely ravage the livelihood of my mother and my brother, so I have no choice but to smile and nod as they salaciously discuss my downfall. Luckily, I don't give a flying fuck. :)

P.S- If one doubts the capability with which I choose my words, I would advise them to discover the handy concept of a dictionary, and then to use it. You might be pleasantly/unpleasantly surprised- the emotional quality of your discovery is entirely dependent on however you wish to react- and you might even learn a word or two in the process.

Sincerely Yours,
The Prodigal Daughter. “

I WILL CLEAN NO MORE FOREVER.

As it currently stands, my enthusiastic bout of intense cleaning turned out to be completely counterproductive. I left my cell phone at the car wash and the precious mechanism is now completely destroyed; apparently cell phones don't mingle to well with copious amounts of soap and water. The travesty has birthed the following conclusion: I should have yielded to my natural inclinations by sitting on my ass all day long as opposed to launching GYMPASB crusades (Glorious Yet Mysteriously Pathetic Attempts to Stay Busy). I will certainly remember that come my next day off.

Also, my philosophy professor has finally finished his lecturing about why women shouldn't be in the workforce/ hold college degrees. He has now started lecturing about aliens instead. I now have sufficient justification to ignore him completely and am therefore quite happy.

I am still sick and cough atrociously, despite the several metric tons of theraflu deliciousness that I have been enjoying daily. This illness is persistent but apparently has no interest in spreading past my sinuses to the rest of my body, so I have yet to suffer from the headaches, body aches, or fatigue that normally accompany a cold. I figure that in terms of colds and various illnesses, this one is actually somewhat lenient and merciful. She/He is invited to stay awhile in my sinuses as long as She/He behaves. I'll keep sipping my theraflu deliciousness and we'll all be happy.

In my semi-delirious yet contently ill state I've begun reading "Catch 22". I adore the first 19 pages that I've read so far, and look forward to finishing it. I will keep you updated.

That is all.

GPU (Glorious productivity update): I have cleaned Rufus. By “cleaned” I mean drove to the car cleaner, hosed him down, soaped him up, rinsed him off, came home, vacuumed him inside out, windexed the windows, fabreezed the hell out of the interior, and doted upon him generously for hours on end. Yes, my biscuits, the productivity continues. What? What was that? Well, yes, okay: I did fiddle about with my father's camera for two and a half hours with not a single picture to show for it, but that's really not the point. Why bother bringing that up, anyway? Must you always focus on the emptiness of my proverbial cup as opposed to the fullness? You won't get anywhere in life with a dark attitude like that, darlings, no place at all.

Anyway, now that I have recovered from that ever so pointless interruption of despondency and gloom, I can continue to the GPF (Glorious productivity forecast): I plan to run for about 30 minutes on the elliptical, and then do some toning exercises for 30 minutes. I will then make a cup of coffee and enjoy it with two squares of dark chocolate. I will then take the rest of the evening to relax. I've earned it, wouldn't you say? What? What do you mean 'no'? Stop gabbing on about the hours and hours of schoolwork I've neglected, damnit! Yes, I've an exam on Friday and Monday, and then a gargantuan research paper due the Friday after that, but that's simply not the point! I've been productive today, hear me? PRODUCTIVE!

You bastards....

I stand by the doorway and lean on the yellowed wall, clad in flannel pants, baggy socks and a gigantic sweater, nail file in hand, rocking slightly as I file my nails. It's not as if I prefer to stand when conducting such an activity, it is simply the best option, you see; I know better. I know what will happen if I sit on that couch.

It will eat me.

It will eat me and my precious day off. The hands of the clock will slide to one, two, three, and I will look up to see that my time has been robbed from me. I will not accomplish all that I badly need to do. The couch will eat me and I will be depressed.

I stand so as to keep going. My errands press up against me, irritated by neglect, and poke me in the leg. I've done this so many times before; I compile a neat list of tasks and endeavor to complete them, but my time always finds a way to trickle through my hands like water, and runs down my clothing and leaves me damp and uncomfortable. I hate that. Today I conquer the fluid of my continual failure. So, let us start appropriately:


“Tah Tah rha DAAAAAA!” Go the horns,
“Boom Boom Boom” Go the drums,
“ yay....” Go the enamored onlookers,


“ALL HAIL THE QUEEN OF PRODUCTIVITY WHO TOTALLY DID HER LAUNDRY TODAY!”

Yes, oh squablings of the under-kingdom: your monarch of hotness did do her laundry today. I also cleaned the entire house and wrote my mother a nice, long letter. Kindly note the early time of the day by which I accomplished said impossible tasks. All is well in the Rachaelian kingdom, dear groundlings, all is well, and the land smells sweetly of laundry detergent.

I know this all seems rather silly, but I've continually been disappointed with the spoils of my Tuesdays (the day in which I do not work nor do I attend school). It is now 1:00 PM, however, and I am happy with what I have done thus far. I thought you might like to know.

This past week I have read:

-Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh
-Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
-Talking It Over by Julian Barnes

"Talking It Over" depressed me, but "Vile Bodies" was spectacular. I'm happy just to be reading regularly again. It's exciting.

I am also toying with the idea of allowing comments on my blog due to Elisse's insistence. I don't know.... What think thee? I suppose the benefit of comments is that you'd actually be able to answer that.

I'll think about it.

“Darling, are you going to get out of bed?”

I struggled to locate the voice. I wake up devastatingly groggy and under the impression that I am in Wisconsin. Is it eight already?

“It's almost eight, dear.”

I squint through my half-closed eyes and peer about the loft.

“But it's dark outside. Is it really eight?”

“Do you want to stay in bed?”

“You know I don't like staying in bed after you leave. It depresses me.” I sit up and pout. Why was it so dark out? I felt as if I had been jolted out of bed in the middle of the night.

“You can stay in bed if you like.”

I moaned and pouted a bit more before heaving myself from the bed. I located my clothing, went downstairs and began to dress. On my way down the steps I couldn't help but realize that the clock wasn't next to the bed.

“Where's the clock?”

“I don't know, dear. Would you like some tea?”

I grunted an indecipherable 'yes' and disappeared into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bryan was already dressed, and I didn't wish to make him late. I tried opening my eyes all the way in the bathroom in a pathetic attempt to wake up. It didn't work too well.

“It's so dark out. How bizarre.” I muttered as I walked to the kitchen.

“What type of tea would you like?”

“White, thank you.”

“It will be ready in a moment.”

“Darling...”

“Yes?”

“You said it was almost eight.”

“Yes...”

“The clock on the stove reads 7:10.”

“.......”

“.......”

A small whine sounds through the apartment. How dare he. How dare he fiddle with my sleeping habits.

I suppose it was lucky for both of us that I discovered the flowers at that moment. Had there not been flowers, dearest reader, arms would have been broken. Blood would have been shed. Livelihood as we know it would shatter into tiny bits of rubble. I would have been, to put it diplomatically, upset. Yesterday I had suffered through two tests, a thesis paper due date, a severe lack of sleep and a slowly developing cold. To wake someone up an hour early after such a day is nothing short of treason.

But there on the table sat a vase of Gerbera daisies, a large bowl of fresh fruit, a plate of cottage cheese and the tea. Gerbera daisies are my favorite (right after the saffron blossom, that is); I love the bright little creatures, with their perfectly proportioned stems and brilliantly colored petals. I've always viewed Valentines as the pinnacle of maudlin uselessness, but this small surprise was, well, nice beyond explanation.

“Oh Darling, how charming. I saw those just in time, you know; I was getting ready to disembowel you.”

“Happy Valentines Day, love.”

We sat down and ate breakfast. I smiled as he told me of the multitudes of gay florists who had aided the surprise. I felt somewhat embarrassed; we had been planning to celebrate Valentines on Thursday, and I had nothing for him. I doubt I'll have anything by Thursday, even; what do you get a man for Valentines? We both decided not to spend much money- we're marvelously poor, you know- so I'm still clueless as to what is expected for the man (although Bryan and I did discover that in return the chauvinists of the world have officially declared March 14th as “blow job” day). I'll figure something out in the next couple of days.

“Thank you for the surprise. I loved it.”

“You're very welcome. Should we get going?”

We left the apartment and I drove him to work. As I pulled out from the parking lot I drove past the front door of the building and saw him. I waved and blew him a kiss. The doorman standing outside waved back at me, looking somewhat confused.

The flowers sit on my desk next to me. I couldn't find a vase, so I placed them in a decanter I found sitting in the dusty bowels of the empty kitchen cabinets. They smell lovely.

The room is much more inviting with my little decanter full of flowers; the deep reds and soft whites and pinks of the pedals make me swell with contentment as I look around the room and think of how hopelessly in love I truly am.

Jeff and Ricky were flopping about, flailing their arms and puffing their faces up with gulps of air they playfully held in their mouths. The sign at the beginning of the subway trail stated that if we were to encounter any cougars while hiking, the best defense is to appear to look big. That's quite literally all the instruction they offered: look big. The sign boasted a picture of a stern hiker waving his hiking sticks in the air and holding his breath. The outdoors community clearly couldn't summon up an acceptable plan A, so they decided to jump directly to plan B and advise the fated travelers to annoy the cougars into retreat as opposed to frightening them. My step-father Jeff and my brother Ricky were practicing. In no time they had perfected the art of annoying all types of life within a five-mile radius into exasperated retreat.

I don't wish to paint a deceitful picture, however; Jeff was hardly the family-man. In our family of 5, he was the largest child of the bunch. The only reason he was acting remotely playful and tolerable at the time was because Ricky is the type of kid anyone can play with. My perception is tainted, I realize, but I don't really wish to relieve the situation of my biases. Jeff and I never got along well, to say it nicely. Many different types of personalities dwell in this world: there are those that bend, adapt, that see the best in others, that are quick to forgive- Ricky fits this mold spectacularly, like a pleasant bit of silly putty that one can't help but adore- there are also those that don't always see accommodation as a priority, and this is the category that fits me the best. There are also the questionable, curious personalities that can only be explained by psychological disorders and the DSM, the ones riddled with loud, pro-Bush opinions, the ones clad in horrible plaid and Tiva sandals- worn, might I add, with equally horrific socks- the ones that never learned to clean up after themselves and think it a great idea to collect empty boxes and cement bricks. This is how I see Jeff. As I said, he and I never got along quite well.

One can imagine, therefore, how brilliantly asinine an idea a family vacation is for a family like mine. Passing each other in the hallways of the house proved to be a challenge for Jeff and me; he'd always manage to utter some stupid comment about the current domestic policy, I'd always end up screaming that he made me want to renounce my American citizenship. So, following traditional Stefanussen mentality, the family resolved that a 5 hour car trip was an apt solution to our cohabitation woes. I dramatically objected, stood strong, and vowed that such a thing would never happen even if the prevention of such meant bloodshed. Needless to say, this story begins in southern Utah, some 5 hours south of Salt Lake City.

I suppose one of the reasons my mother married Jeff was because he was “outdoorsy”, if I might be so bold as to use such an ugly-sounding expression. Jeff was fantastically active in all the wrong ways; he participated in the Iron Man competition- and no, you gullible easterners, it's not this awesome, ritualistic pastime of glory that everyone thinks it to be; if stupidness were to materialize into an overrated event, the end result would surely be an “iron man” competition- he owned all the expensive R.E.I gear that sat in the basement and collected dust, and he wore those beastly short shorts that doubtlessly revealed the most lurid unmentionables to innocent passersby when he went jogging. My mother must be the only individual in the entire world who appreciates “outdoorsy” people, these flamboyant creatures of immodesty, because she married Jeff. I'll never understand it; my mother also enjoyed being active in this way, but only to the extent of the normal individual; she appreciated it, admired it to some apathetic degree, and even considered buying a kayak until she became distracted by a shiny object lying on the ground and decided to go to lunch instead. Though the woman was always in great shape she never bothered to actually go jogging or anything. Why her admiration for the “outdoorsy” folk of the underworld would actually inspire her to marry one is completely past me. This tepid “outdoorsyness” of hers, however, is the reason I was forced to go to southern Utah to go hiking. Against my will, mind you.

It's not that I mind the hiking, truly I don't. Though I enjoy whining when outdoors, somewhere deep, deep inside of me is a sliver of appreciation for the experience. The one good thing about having pretentiously “outdoorsy” caretakers is that mandatory family activities tend to be intense. Jeff had submitted a bid to secure a permit to hike through the Subway slot canyon in Zion National Park (Yes, one must bid to hike here. Quite pretentious, as I have previously noted). The 9.5 mile hike slithers through the west side of Zion and requires its hikers to rappel, swim, and rock climb as they traverse the slot canyon. Though Jeff and I occasionally found our ways to squabble despite these obstacles, the rappelling, swimming and climbing kept the family busy enough to forsake the usual bickering. I'm not the type of person who talks as they hike. I'm not sure why, because it wasn't as if I was concentrating on the hike, or what surrounded me at that time, I simply slid into my thoughts and remained there for most of the seven hour hike. It took me three and a half hours to realize that no one quarreled when I was silent.

The canyon was, I'll admit, extraordinary. The sandstone met the ground in the most peculiar places, and soared up sixty feet on either side of you and cradled you, and the air between the two walls was heavy yet comfortable. It wasn't a cheerful place; it was damp and aggressive; the pools of water sat like glass between the walls of the canyon, and though they were a bright emerald green, there was something menacing about the water. The shapes were bizarre; the stone curved round the stream and grasped the mouths of caves that loomed grandly to the side. At times I felt as if I had fallen into an obnoxiously gaudy science-fiction novel from 1953.

We came upon a log twenty feet in length that rested on the side of the canyon and slopped down into a pool of water.

“Ah, the famous log,” I mused. Of the thousands of Subway pictures Jeff had insisted on showing us previous to our departure, ninety percent of them boasted this slender log, which, might I add, holds no significance whatsoever, other than the fact that it struck some 900 hikers as original and worthy of a picture. We all stopped to take our pictures under the log o' fame, and for a brief moment I wished I had been wearing a hawaiian shirt and burmuda shorts. I said this out loud, and everyone looked somewhat offended that I would so irreverently mock the log. Ricky didn't mind, though, he rarely does; nothing bothers him, and he's always ready to sport a smile and laugh at whatever stupid thing you have to say. That's who he is, at least that's who he used to be; he takes a little after my older brother Rob and me now, and he's grown a little cynical, a little stubborn, a little callous. In a sense I think it's good for him, because now he's more honest about what he wants as opposed to agreeing to what everyone else has to say. On the other hand, though, it's a bit sad; every once in a while I see a bit of my belligerence flash in him, like a sharp reflection on the glass of a car as it speeds through the night, and it simply doesn't suite him. He's so good at being kind. I suppose I shouldn't feel guilty. In Salt Lake, where everyone masterfully pretends that they care with great big smiles and twinkling eyes, with voices so fake that their words drip out of their mouths and down their white shirts, I pride my cynical self on my well-placed indelicacy. Each vigorous scowl is simply another satirical victory for me, you see, in this battle against needless pretension. I am the only counterbalance, and each scowl and hearty witticism is for the good of the general populace, I tell myself. There are times, however, when I look at Rick and I wonder if I've fallen off the edge of the other extreme.

We probably sat down and had a name-brand overpriced granola bar at this time. I don't remember. We continued our hike, and the scenery grew more elaborate. The puddles of green grew deeper, and the bends in the stream became more vast as we crept out of the mouth of the canyon. I'm sure that Jeff sputtered some complex yet utterly useless (and probably misquoted) statistics about the rock formations at one time or the other. I have no idea; that man is so full of useless statistics that I stopped listening three days after I met him. My mother once told me that I stopped listening to Jeff before I met him, and I replied by informing her that her statement wasn't half as profound as it sounded. I remember that she smiled after I said this, and laughed. Though she doesn't enjoy the fact that I so stubbornly oppose optimism, my mother laughs at the dry humor in my opinions. When she laughs she smiles, and I always feel as though she understands me when she does this. We slowly exited the slot canyon and began the steep 400-foot climb straight up the loose talus hill to the canyon rim. The sun shone- it must have- in that piercing way that bathes you so deeply in yellow light that it's difficult to see. The dust of the desert rose up, embraced us, and clung to our damp bodies that were moist with the perspiration of the hike. The subway was visible yet distant, and without the pressing weight of the internal décor of the canyon it felt as if I wasn't looking at the same expanse of land I had just explored. I placed my hands on my hips and asked for a drink of water.

I'm not sure how long we walked before we reached Jeff's Chevrolet blazer. Jeff's car bore manifest to the fact that his all-encompassing “outdoorsyness” was of apocryphal proportions; Chevrolet blazers, in all their versatility and ability to be simultaneously sporty yet semi-ego-friendly, are only appointed to the supremely “outdoorsy” of all the “outdoorsy” folk. I smirked at the rarely-used bike rack that was perched on top as I tossed my gear in the back and climbed in the car. I threw myself on the seat and let my legs fall limp. I stretched my arms behind me, crossed them, and rested them on my forehead. I exhaled and yawned, searched the ceiling of the car with my eyes, ignored the sounds of the others as they clamored in. Jeff had just begun talking about the vegetation of Mt. Kilimanjaro when I fell asleep. I was exhausted in every which way, wholly and completely, inside and out.