Death of a Queen

2011-08-10T11:30:00.004-04:00

It consumes me, my isolation. It’s remarkable that I am surrounded by people, drowning in countless throngs of the faces of my many acquaintances, yet I feel wholly alone. I have my family by my side, more of them than usual, mind you, but we don’t really talk; we bullshit about the weather and watch movie after movie to strangle the silence between us, careful to not impose on one another with anything weighty. Nathaniel is where he always is when my spirits sour: he’s at a movie, at a concert, chipping away at an unnecessary 80-hour work week, waiting from a distance for me to cheer up and act normal. He comes home hours after I’ve gone to bed and leaves before I wake. In his absence my depression spirals, my perspective throbs and distorts and I fall deeper into dysfunction, and I hate myself for needing him the way that I do.

Elisse lied almost as compulsively and erratically as I do, and for the same reasons: in an attempt to pacify great expectations, to out-wit and out-run the judgments of others, to forge some semblance of privacy between us and the peering, disapproving gaze of the world around us. I wasn’t at the store today: I went to the park, but I told you otherwise because I hate that you need to know. I hate that you ask about the things that don’t matter and blatantly ignore the things that do.

Elisse and I are very similar in that respect: if you inspect the details, the technical mechanics of our stories, you’ll find them to be comically, absurdly untrue. Elisse, however, would always tell the truth about the things that matter. The arching themes- the method, the incentive, the foundational elements capable of explaining every subsequent minutia- were always offered without question. She felt too deeply to lie about what she felt, and she was wise enough to see the folly and the danger of trying to hide it. Thus she wore her soul on her sleeve, bravely and unconditionally.

When things were going well for me I saw this as a weakness and an imposition. When things were going badly I fled to her, frantically, as fast as my hypocrite legs would take me, to bask in her emotional candor and understanding. She had her insecurities- in hindsight I suspect they ran deeper than I realized- but she never apologized for being an emotional being.

She was too much in love with life to lie about the bittersweet thrill of it all. She was salvation and relief, and people gravitated towards her. We need to be honest, we need to accept what is, we need to admit to our demons in order to face them. We feel alone, we feel unworthy, we feel defective, we live life convinced of our inability and insanity, yet we spend almost every precious minute and ounce of energy convincing each other we’re normal and happy.

I am not happy. I don’t want to talk about the weather. I want to fall to my knees and beat my fists upon the ground, crying and sobbing and shrieking myself hoarse, ripping at my clothes, writhing and convulsing in the agony of all this mysterious, inexplicable, unjustified misery. I want to look in your eyes and say something worthy of the explosive existence we share on this earth. I want to discuss something that tries to do justice to the sky, or the snow, or the heart-wrenchingly beautiful concepts of family or friendship or love. I want to love you with the very sinew of my muscle and my being, without condition, without choice. When our mighty cities crumble and my carefully constructed world falls to shit, I want to turn my head and find you there unfaltering. We will mourn our losses, with time laugh at the dark irony of all the ugliness, and then, when the time comes, together we will rebuild whatever it was we let slip through our fingers.

2011-07-31T19:22:00.000-04:00

I feel myself growing older. For some reason in my mind I have an image of shattering glass playing in reverse; millions of shards fly through the abyss to gradually complete a whole, unblemished, crystalline surface. Each day brings me new slivers of perspective and another day lived, and every once in a while I can feel how different my thoughts are from what they used to be. I don’t feel brilliant or wise or even less stupid, I just feel… older.

I’m not angry about certain things. I feel a reflexive impulse to open the gates, to let frustration billow and swell and muffle my good mood, to fire up and rage before slipping away to die. I open myself to these feelings, but the anger doesn’t come. I understand now, why people do some of the things they do. I understand that others are just as fragile and defensive and irrational as I. Everyone has their childhood issues, their insecurities, desperate desires stubbornly out of reach and coping mechanisms to accept them.

We’ve always been children, you and I. We fought so hard to prove to the world otherwise and god, how we wasted our time! What were we racing towards, what was the rush? Why did we run so frantically from the sweet carelessness of our youth? We cared so deeply, so desperately about so many of the wrong things. How silly those things seem from a distance! Why did we let them enrage us?

It’s all a dull throb now, those silly little things that once meant everything. I see reasons all around me to get upset but they mean nothing. There’s so much more to all of this than the slights, the injustices, the nagging thoughts of mediocrity and inability and insignificance. We stand beloved, just as we always have, just as we always will. Joy flashes through my limbs: we’re conquering our sadness, my love! The things that once consumed us stand powerless! I want to thrust out my arms and rejoice, I want to run in the grass and the sun towards the future and endless oblivion. I want to grab your hand and face the world, and with your hand in mine walk forward.

But you are elsewhere now, I know. You are with me but in a different way. You are the ink on my skin, the salt of memory-born tears, the wisp of tobacco smoke that encircled you as you embraced a lucky strike in the snow. Slowly, with each passing day, I come closer to accepting this.

I talk to you, you know. Like a lunatic I look up to the sky and chuckle about all the things you’d find funny. I roll my eyes and mutter to you throughout the day, convinced I can gauge your reaction to a tee. But there are things I don’t know about you, darling. There are things we hid from each other out of pride and distrust, all the while convinced we knew everything worth knowing about the other. We were blinded by how well we thought we knew each other; in some regards we were almost strangers.

That’s another thing each day gives me: scraps of truth that reveal how little I know and how tremendously little I knew yesterday. I suppose that’s all I have to say for now. Life is ironic in the blackest yet sweetest way possible, simultaneously falling in and out of focus, beating in rhythm to steps on the sidewalk, mellifluous, muted and miles above our control.

2009-08-15T13:36:00.002-04:00

I'm sitting in a small coffee shop in Northside, a small hip little community north-west of Cincinnati proper. I'm waiting on my beloved, Nathaniel, while he gets his hair cut, pretending to get some work done. I have work I'm currently neglecting, of course, there's always, always a soul-destroying pile of work I should be tending to, regardless the time of the year or the time of the day. No matter how hard I work I know I should always be working harder, and it's a bit difficult to keep spirits up in light of it all.

I'm glad to find myself writing, though. Now that I have everything I "want"- a wonderful, handsome, loyal boyfriend, a career and a passion I'm quite good at, a group of friends I go out with often, a charming apartment- I'm utterly restless and discontent. With the exception of Nate and at times design, everything seems trivial, superficial and meaningless.

Bah. I feel restless. I always feel restless, though. What a petty little wretch I am.

2008-12-27T23:29:00.002-05:00

Bryan, darling, you are very much a part of me. I cannot remove your influence or the part you took in shaping me- we grew together during the time we spent together- and I would never want to. I see you reflected in every aspect of my personality, of my lifestyle, of my decisions; if my life were a pond I feel you'd be one of the few trees sitting beside and floating above, forever lending your visage to the surface of the water. So many things that I prefer and adore and cannot live without were things I found only by your introduction, and in turn I simply cannot live without you. You and I were once lovers. I mean this in a way that surpasses any single dimension or type of relationship: we were once lovers, we are now dear friends, colleagues, peers; we have become each other's family. I am no more capable of lessening your importance in my life than a tree is capable of changing it's grain or removing one of its rings. I couldn't be happier with this; despite any nativity shenanigans you decide to orchestrate, I will always respect and admire your integrity, dignity, and honesty. I will forever hold you in my memories and in my mind. You are so very dear to my heart, darling, and regardless of where life may take us, what lovers we take on, what changes befall us, or what distance lies between us, dear to my heart you shall stay.

2008-12-23T01:45:00.001-05:00

TO DO:

-find Karen Dalton's "It's so hard to tell who's going to love you the best" album.

-check out Mara Carlyle

2008-12-16T20:00:00.003-05:00

Beautifully, refreshingly, freely, fabulously drunk. Listening to some of Nikka Costa’s better stuff, with Nicole Atkins and Meiko sprinkled pleasantly in between.

Currently finished with Ben, starting- for reasons unbeknownst to myself- something with an old Whirlpool coworker, still currently infatuated with Matt, it seems. That damn boy calls me out of the blue, sending my heart a flutter, sending me straight back to July, the bastard. I swear he collects the women he’s refused as friends.

All of these things, however, are a harmless, amusing blur once I’ve gotten a couple in me. I’m drowning myself in good whiskey and good music, floating back and forth to the kitchen for refills, utterly content. I’m only moderately annoyed with Matt. I’m only slightly confused with others. Everything is so benign in this state. Everything.

I don’t think I should settle. My chances of ending up happy would skyrocket if I did, but I don’t think I will. I’ll resign myself to something passionate; someone like Matt. I’ll follow passion and be miserable and frustrated, but I’ll be passionate all the same. I want someone without whom I cannot breathe, without whom I cannot sleep, without whom I cannot be happy, whose very presence robs me of my independence and ability to live without them. I want to drink them in the way I do my whiskey, and I want to feel as distant and content and scandalously edified as a result. I want to fret over him the way most girls fret over their men; I want to give a shit for once. I want to be swept off my feet, I want to be changed by his very existence, I want to change drastically enough to be surprised and resent him for it.

I’ll have that or nothing, I’ve decided. I’ll putz about in the meantime, sure, but ultimately, if a man doesn’t make me feel the way I just described then I’ll carry on by myself.

2008-12-15T22:33:00.002-05:00

I walked through the lobby of the paltry hotel, weaving through furniture decades past its prime and tasteless holiday décor hung sloppily and thoughtlessly, looking left to right for sign of the ladies’ restroom. It was remarkable, I noted as my eyes glided over the sorry sight, what a couple of drinks does to the look of the place.

I trotted down a winding hallway to the bathroom, pleasantly surprised by the warmth of the facilities. I was feeling merry; I had just completed my last day of my internship for Whirlpool and tonight was my last night in St Joseph. I was celebrating with an unusually boisterous and intoxicated happy hour. I was half way through my third drink of the evening at this point in time, and though not drunk I was definitely good and tipsy.

I don’t know why I behave in a way so unfitting for the person I wish to be. I don’t know why I enable a perception of myself that solicits such crushing, demeaning judgment. I don’t want to be seen this way; I don’t want to be this way. I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what I wish to be, though I have those lofty, general descriptors everyone would claim to strive towards: honest, hardworking, respectable. What I want specifically still manages to elude me. There have been situations that have occurred, much to my dismay, more and more often as of late, that alert me to exactly the things I do not wish to be.

I’ve discovered that I crave attention. Perhaps I don’t crave it, per say, but I enjoy it too much to ever turn it down, no matter how inappropriate, or unrespectable, or harmful to individuals I care about and respect. I behave without integrity because I am simply too apathetic to proactively dissuade attention I should consider myself above.

I can play this game. I’m articulate and persuasive enough to rationalize and justify anything to myself. I can dress this up as some sort of ironically poetic disorder, some sort of holy apathy instilled by my elite cynicism or disconnection or intellect.

There is nothing elite about the way I act during these times. If anything, it is a trait shared amongst many types of women I hate so fervently: deep down, something base and disgusting about me loves the flattery.

2008-09-06T12:16:00.001-04:00

“Mom, really.”

“What?” She asked, acting oblivious.

“That wasn’t necessary at all. You could have gotten that girl in trouble. You were trying to get that girl in trouble.”

“You never say ‘I don’t know’. That’s not good service. She wasn’t being helpful at all. And then she told me to walk across the store to customer service, and my feet hurt,” My mum replied as she continued to browse the shelves. I rolled my eyes. She had just been incredibly rude to a grocery store employee who couldn’t tell us where to find bean curd tofu. The employee worked in the deli.

“I know it’s not good service. You don’t have to be rude about it.” My mum turned to me and opened her mouth to retort.

“Just not very Christ-like, you know. I can’t see Jesus doing that,” I continued. God, I love it. As an atheist with no god to answer to, I have carte blanche. Holier-than-thou Mormons, however, do not. Poor gal. Rightfully, she hates it when I play this card.

She paused.

“Jesus had sandals,” she said irritably. “I’m wearing uncomfortable shoes.”

2008-09-06T10:13:00.012-04:00

I should most certainly be sleeping. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in only god knows how long, and today has certainly been a confusing, tiring day. I feel a need to write, however, and sort things out.

Matt is a studio mate of mine that I’ve had a crush on for sometime now. He’s one of the most talented students in the classroom- thanks to the fact that his hobbies and passions all revolve around concept art and other productive, beneficial interests related to our field- and his desk sits diagonally across from mine. I suppose we’ve been aware of each other’s existence since fall of last year when we entered the program as sophomores, but it wasn’t until the quarter before coop that I noticed him for the first time and developed a very silly, typical crush.

Perhaps it’s his utter dorkiness– his love of comic books, the batman shirts, the endless quotation of random movies, his sharp but good-natured wit– or his dark hair, hazel eyes and the ideal way his lean frame stands at six feet even. His sense of humor is simultaneously childish and profoundly observant, and no matter the day or my mood, always able to make me laugh.

We rarely talked prior to this quarter- we were in different studios prior to coop and then off in different cities for our jobs- but we’ve come to know each other a bit now that we’re in the same studio and sit next to one another. At times our conversations were flirtatious and at times completely platonic, depending on the day and our current situation, and now that I look back upon the last month I realize how indecisive and fickle his behavior has been. Though I’ve decided that I don’t want to date anyone exclusively or engage in any type of long distance relationship until I’ve finished school, my absolute adoration of him and desire to casually spend time with him hasn’t waned. He, on the other hand, flits back and forth from instigating blatantly flirtatious interaction to mindlessly asking me advice about other girls he considers pursuing. Instead of taking a cautionary step back and distancing myself from the uncertain situation, I did what I do best and dove straight into the mess.

I think it was a week or a week and a half into the quarter when I really talked to him for the first time. We had our first assignment due in our Industrial Design studio- an image board and task analysis of the powertool we had chosen to redesign- and I was adding final touches to my work late in studio when he walked in to hang up what he had prepared for the following day. My productivity, as always, took a nose-dive the moment he showed up. We chatted for a moment or two as he hung up his boards and I pretended to continue working. After he had pinned his work to the wall and shuffled various things about his desk he asked me an unexpected question:

“So what’s going on between you and Jason? Is there something there?” He said, somehow managing to prevent the question from sounding as awkward as it was. I was a bit startled to hear this; Jason and I are good friends, and though many individuals have assumed over the course of the past year that we are more than just friends, we’re not. Normally the assumption is unspoken, however, and I was surprised by his boldly admitted curiosity.

“No, we’re not.” I said, probably while grinning bashfully and stupidly.

“Is there no interest, or …” He probed, encouraging an explanation.

“There is a plethora of reasons. I’ve tried the older guy scenario and think I’ll look for someone closer to my own age next time around.”

He asked a couple more questions, all extremely straightforward yet delivered comfortably and confidently. I discovered many things about him that surprised me during that conversation: in regards to relationships he is extremely conservative and inexperienced, and somewhat charming in his desire for a woman “who can take care of herself but will allow herself to be taken care of”. We talked about past relationships; he admitted to being somewhat smitten with a girl in our studio, I mentioned Ben. He declared that he prefers serious relationships and alluded to the fact that he currently doesn’t want to be too physical with a woman, and I rather bluntly told him that though I’m seeing a couple of people I have no intention of really caring for someone until I’ve finished school and have the time to invest. Things were going along swimmingly; it appeared that we were totally and undeniably incompatible.

A studio romance, you see, is tragedy waiting to happen. It makes an office romance look like an idealistic fairytale. There is no way imaginable for such a situation to do anything other than deteriorate into a bitter, awkward mess; there are less than 20 students in our studio, which is probably about 700 square feet and organized in an open layout. There is no place to hide and no way to distance oneself from any one classmate. One is fated to spend, at the very least, 50 hours a week with one’s peers for five years. All of them. On top of this there are also social complications of dating a classmate. If things don’t work out, or more realistically speaking, when things don’t work out, one is forced to spend years worrying about whether or not the second party is discussing personal topics with friends and coworkers. The design world, being as miniscule as it is, forgets nothing. Memories of embarrassing situations do not fade upon graduation; at this time your peers become fellow employees of the industry. All in all, dating a fellow student is a bad, bad idea.

Oh, and by the way: due to co-op, we spend every other three months in different cities. That, too, may complicate things a wee bit.

For some inexplicable, astounding reason this didn’t bother me in the slightest. I knew fully well what a vexing mess such a relationship would inevitably become, and I knew it was careless of me to jeopardize my ability to comfortably focus in class, yet I didn’t care. I didn’t care one bit. It wasn’t a passionate obsession that lead me to forsake better judgment; I just felt like going along and seeing what came of it. At that moment in time I was perfectly content being his friend but for some reason I didn’t have the discipline to rule out anything more. Seeing our vastly different ideals and interests, however, it seemed that things were to stay platonic, and I was happy with this.

We talked a while in studio while putzing about. I was working on an assignment that wasn’t due for ages, and it appeared he had come to studio just to hang his work up. I began packing up my things and offered him a ride home. He accepted, and as we drove to his place he asked if I would like to see an episode of Batman Begins he had talked about in studio. Though our opinions about relationships and significant others vary greatly, we agree on batman. I hadn’t seen Batman Begins; I couldn’t imagine anything living up to the glory years of batman TAS, but he insisted I approach the series with an open mind and give it a try. It was late by this time- probably close to midnight- and we had critique at nine the next morning, yet of course what little pragmatism I had went out the window the moment he offered.

While up in his room the tone changed dramatically. Gone was discussion of other romantic endeavors and logical relationships; the conversation grew progressively more flirtatious, he ran a finger down my calf at times and asked if going to see the Dark Knight would be a date. I was somewhat surprised by it all, though I’m sure I instigated just as much as he did. I told him “sure” when he asked about the movie (yes, yes I know. I'm a slick casanova, aren't I). When 2:30 rolled around we decided to call it a night and I drove back to my apartment.

Though I had been absolutely smitten with this boy for ages, I wasn’t ecstatic at this, the first sign of romantic interest. The entire Matt ordeal has been a peculiar one in that I’ve felt distanced from it even as it happened. I watched these scenes unfold with the same concern with which one would watch a movie; yes, you have expectations and hopes for what will happen, but regardless of the story’s events you still get up and walk away after the two hours have run its course.

Perhaps this is why I didn’t think through the logic of the situation or get up in arms over anything that was happening; I sat in my theater chair, popcorn in hand, gasping in horror when Matt spoke of how much he liked Erin and “aaawing” when he insinuated that he wanted to go on a date. There was no jumping up and down upon my return to the apartment, no giddy girlish squeals, nothing of the sort. Those who know me well would contest that I’m simply not prone to such behavior, but I have been known to act frivolously when in private. I simply went home and went to bed.

The weeks that followed showed little of the flirtation that had been so apparent that evening. There were hints, here and there, that were direct and undeniable, but they were sprinkled between spouts of behavior that would suggest otherwise. We went to go see the movie with a group of fifteen other people and only spent time alone together when chance found the two of us in studio late at night.

At this moment in time I was in the middle of training for PF Changs, which required an intense time investment and a lot of studying. Between school, work, friends and family I had little time to fret about what had happened to the attraction that had previously surfaced. A couple of weeks passed, and I came to the conclusion that little would ever happen between Matt and I. My reaction, as I mentioned before, was muffled and understated; for some strange reason none of this struck me as tragic, just mildly unfortunate.

Early last week I made plans to go see the Dark Knight again with a small handful of students that had been unable to see it the week before. I extended the invitation to everyone in studio, including Matt. We originally planned to go see it Tuesday, then changed it to Thursday, then considered seeing it sometime over the weekend due to scheduling conflicts. As our plans shuffled about and became increasingly uncertain our group’s number dwindled until Jon, Matt and I were the only ones still planning to attend. Later in the week at studio I attempted to nail down a time only to be hushed by Matt, who once again wanted us to go see it alone. I obliged, and plans were made for Sunday afternoon.

Even then, alone at the levee’s Barnes and Noble and the movie theater, things were primarily friendly. He went off to go look at comic books while I bought the coffee I desperately needed- I had stayed out late at a party the night before- and we each paid for our movie tickets separately. I ate my bagel as quietly as possible, sipped my coffee, and halfway through the bank scene at the beginning of the movie he put his arm around my shoulder. He smelled nice. I was happy.

Afterwards he invited me yet again up to his room to see an episode we had discussed during the course of the afternoon. The flirtation heightened, the conversation grew more suggestive, tickling ensued. The situation was playful, charming and certain. We went for food, joked around, he walked me to my car, and there, on the west bank of Vine’s wide boulevard, swimming in the benign breeze of a soft summer day, we kissed.

Even as I think the words I feel how maudlin this sounds. These sentiments are so predictable and expected, especially from a woman. I hate the cliche, I hate it, but it's true: I have never melted as I melted then.

The precursory fumbling was momentary. It was short enough to be charming instead of awkward, and the kiss that followed was slow, comfortable, and lingering though not prolonged. As I pulled away from him and started for my car door I told him:

“Yes, this will definitely need talking about”. I was still confused; his flip-flopping had left me skeptical. I was skeptical, but I was content. I wasn’t worried, I wasn’t unsure; I was just floating along watching the show, happy with the blissful turn of events. Upon my return to my apartment, a grin spread to my lips as I fell to my bed. That was a spectacular first kiss.

My reminiscing was cut short by the schoolwork I had neglected all weekend. Not only did I have a considerable amount of work I needed to complete for school, but I also had a PF Chang’s bar exam scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. It may sound like a simple restaurant test, but it was brutal; for example, one of the questions asked was “name the five different types of cognac we carry, the corresponding prices, and a flavor profile of each”. Imagine having to memorize such information for every liquor, spirit, cocktail and wine sold at PF Changs. I had to know three bottles of wine for every type of wine sold (and we’re not just talking the basics. I had to know this information for obscure wines such as pinot gris, petit sirah, and Monostrell). I had to know how the cocktails were made, the ingredients and the exact brand of liquor in them, and the garnish (PF Chang’s offers over 40 cocktails). I hadn’t even begun to study for it yet, and it was already Sunday evening. I decided to focus on the school work that was due Monday and study for the exam Monday afternoon. I stayed up until three trying to perfect the 3D model of my floor edger, and woke up four hours later to get ready for class.

I was tired, but I was elated. I had wasted an entire weekend that should have been spent in the dreary confines of studio, but that kiss dissolved any worry or doubt. Not only were my worries of work and class shoved away and neglected, but any apprehension I probably should have felt regarding this situation with Matt was nonexistent. I surprised myself with the light step and silly grin with which I walked to school the following morning.

Nothing unusual happened during studio the next morning; no silly grins flashed back and forth between Matt and I, no awkward blushing or stuttering or fumbling could be seen in either of us. Things were cheerfully flirtatious as they had been before, but we focused on the work we needed to focus on instead of one another. It wasn’t until later that evening, when once again we were alone in studio together, that anything romantic happened.

Much to my surprise, he kissed me in the middle of studio, the door flung wide open to the hallway’s several passersby. I kissed him back and pulled him to a more discreet corner of the room. He kissed with a fervor I would have never expected from a chaste, idealistic family man. His five-o-clock shadow cut into my skin and I tasted sunscreen on his neck.

For some reason I feel no desire to relive this scene as I do the kiss of the previous day; it was too heavy too quickly and sensual in a way I hadn’t expected. The making out was hot and flawless but misplaced and cut short by the embarrassing, awkward arrival of a classmate.

I was pressed against the wall behind a column and didn’t see her walk into the room, but I heard her book bag hit her desk as Matt reflexively let go and walked towards his desk. It was impossible to play dumb or stupidly pretend as if we had been inspecting the grain of the column she saw us against. We had, plain and simple, been caught making out in studio.

We walked the 15-foot walk of shame back to our desks as we laughed in embarrassment. Emily, the unfortunate girl who had walked in on us, turned and left the room as soon as she possibly could. Matt and I, blushing madly and laughing scurried out of the room to escape the suffocating embarrassment.

We didn’t walk next to one another; I walked briskly a couple of paces in front of him down the hallway, through the building and to the lawn. I couldn’t stop blushing and laughed nervously as I walked. We sat down in the grass and fell into a final fit of laughter. I buried my head in my hands, my face hot to the touch and still bright red. We glanced at each other and continued to laugh.

I can only vaguely remember that conversation. Too much time has passed to do justice with dialogue, though I can remember what was said. Matt asked me whether or not I thought Emily would tell anyone, and I replied that there wasn’t a chance in hell that she wouldn’t. That’s simply not how women are built, I told him. It’s physically impossible for us to keep such juicy gossip a secret. We then discussed, for the first time, what in the hell we were doing. We agreed to something casual- we both had feelings for individuals we met during coop- and then mulled over various dating technicalities. I had very little to say; technically speaking, the whole thing was a horrible, horrible idea. Nothing could change our unfavorable schedule or proximity. I remember noting how much I disliked having that unpleasant conversation with him; kissing was much more fun.

“Just be reckless for once”, I said, grinning. “Worry about these thing as they come”.

We returned to our studio, and much to my surprise he kissed me in the hallway. Bizarrely, the normally busy hallway was completely empty and the kiss went unnoticed. Though my satisfaction with our situation wasn’t as carefree and giddy as it had been the evening before, I was still happy and not worried in the slightest. I simply adored him.

I stayed late and woke early to work. I worked at home- I was dreading the inevitable reaction from my classmates- and arrived at studio an hour before class. I glanced over at the table at which Emily sat, along with her two good friends Emily and Erin. It was impossible to tell by listening to those damned girls whether or not Emily had said anything. They were always giggling.

Matt arrived half and hour later. After setting his bag down he walked to my desk and told me quietly that he needed to speak with me. I obliged and followed him out of the classroom. We walked much as we had the evening before: not side by side as one walks during a comfortable, leisurely conversation, but rather he walked a pace or two ahead of me, looking back as he talked.

“I was up thinking about this all last night and this morning, and I wanted to just get to the point before I choked out.”

Oh dear, I thought to myself. How on earth had I not seen this coming? I was completely oblivious to this possibility right up until this moment. Dear god, I’m an idiot. I silently chastised myself as I followed him blindly, dumbly.

We turned the corner and stopped at a ledge overlooking the grand staircase. He hopped up and sat on the ledge, which was waist-high, but I remained standing, rested my elbows on the ledge and looked up at him.

“I can’t.” He said.

Of course, I thought. I had known exactly what was happening the moment he had asked to speak with me, and other than that initial shock my reaction was entirely muted. I was relaxed in my mysterious theater chair, after all, distant and barely concerned. I didn’t at all like what was happening and I felt enormously apprehensive, but I was helpless. Class started in 15 minutes and I had an unbelievable amount of schoolwork to do. I couldn’t let anything slow me down or set me even farther back. Little or no emotion seeped through my expression, which was silent and pensive, or at least I believe none did. He may have seen or sensed something of which I was entirely unaware.

“It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s not that I’m not attracted to you, it’s just that I’m not okay with not being 100% in a relationship, even if you are.”

I employed a surprisingly successful poker face to carry me through the rest of the conversation. I wasn’t hiding any sort of heartbreak from him; we hadn’t spent enough time together to be emotionally invested and I’m much to proud to cry or even admit to such a thing in face of rejection. It was still miserable to hear these words come from a man I was completely infatuated with. What I hated the most about the entire ordeal was the public venue. Though he was speaking quietly and no one could possibly figure out what was happening, I hated the wretched words he was uttering and felt as if everyone in the world could hear him.

“You know there are other people I have feelings for, one of which is back at Hasbro…”

Another of which happens to be in our own fucking studio, I thought to myself bitterly. So help me God, if he macks on Erin in front of me I’ll castrate him while he sleeps….

“…And it’s just not fair to you,” He finished.

“Those are all things I would have liked to know a couple of days ago, Matt,” I responded.

“I know, and I’m sorry. Hey, man.” He looked up and addressed a fellow daap student who was walking towards us. It was Travis, who one of my roommates and apparently a friend of Matt’s. I jumped at the opportunity to escape and asked him some bullshit question about the utilities bill while we began walking back towards class. He answered, I thanked him, and he left Matt and I to walk down the ID corridor alone, side-by-side, awkward and uncomfortable. Whatever had transpired between Matt and I evaporated the instant we walked into studio, and things went back to what they had been before. We chatted meaninglessly during class and joked about the same old things during studio, and never again acknowledged that we had ever been anything more than classmates.

2008-07-07T22:28:00.001-04:00

I have always dismissed advice given by strangers at the gym as pompous attempts to hit on me, but after an 85-year-old man interrupted my workout today to tell me that I was using the machine completely incorrectly I realized that I must be completely retarded at using the gym. Huh.

I prefer to think that all those body builders were just trying to mack on me.

All is well. I have 25 sketches due on Wednesday that I should probably start tonight. I think I’ll go do that. I went to Taco Bell today, by the way, and it was the best meal I’ve had in ages. Seriously.

2008-07-06T21:56:00.001-04:00

Jesus Christ. No love, no love at all for the tattoo idea thus far. God. You’d think that one might find support for such an idea from the creative counter-culture that is design, but alas, I have yet to find any. Today I was told by a man with a mohawk and a batman tee that I would taint myself with a large tattoo. What the hell.

I am beginning to have my doubts. I can’t decide which would be worse: looking back at age 65 and regretting that I never had the balls to get a tattoo that I always wanted, or looking down at age 65 and seeing a stretched, out-of-place blight that covers a third of my torso. Hmmmm… decisions, decisions. I simply love the idea of a pretty, conservatively dressed young professional who beneath the banana republic cardigan and darling heels has Russian literature tattooed all over her body. Surely there is someone out there who also finds that amusing and awesome. Speak up, you illusive tattoo-condoning individuals! Where are you?

Today was successful. At 11:00 I went to brunch with Dennis, my dear friend and previous regional manager at Chart House, at Honey, an awesome indy restaurant over in Northside. I like Dennis immensely; he’s intelligent and pleasant while unapologetically goofy at times. We live in separate worlds, he and I; I spend 70 hours a week in the dork bizarro bubble that is DAAP, whereas his time is spent in a world of restaurants, wine tasting and actually having money. He turns 30 next week and invited me to a celebratory soiree:

D: “What are you doing on the 18th?

Me: “ Oh my god, BATMAN!”

D: “Come again?”

Me: “Dude, The Dark Knight comes out on the 18th, and I made plans to go see it EIGHT months ago. We even planned a batman marathon in preparation. BATMAN. That is what I’m doing on the 18th.”

D: “…..”

Me: “Does that make me even more of a dork?”

D: “That makes you even more awesome”.

I agreed to stop by after the film and help him celebrate his being old, and I look forward to meeting his friends and family. I also look forward to Batman, obviously. I’m going with my studio friend Matt, the aforementioned tattoo-hater who is currently sporting a mohawk. He’s an even bigger batman fan than I am, so his presence, hopefully, will make me feel somewhat normal. I cannot contain my excitement for the movie; the trailers look downright spectacular. Though I was initially suspicious of Heath Ledger’s Joker, my worries were banished the moment I saw his demented makeup and that menacing Chelsea smile. It’s going to be creepy. It’s going to be fantastic.

On a side note, I’ve been going to the gym daily since school started, and it’s starting to show. While on coop I spent almost every weekend in Chicago with Ben, during which time we went out to eat for every meal. I, er, returned to Cincinnati significantly plumper than I had left it, and was unhappy with the state of affairs. I dragged my chubby little ass to the gym and have worked out an hour a day since then, and will soon be the walking ball of hotness I aspire to be. Things are looking up.

2008-07-05T23:28:00.002-04:00

*Disclaimer: all images unceremoniously stolen from flickr. Don't sue me, y'all.

2008-07-05T23:23:00.003-04:00

Just a couple examples of typographic tattoos, some more successful than others. The first is a good display of how small the type can be.

2008-07-05T21:00:00.000-04:00

2008-07-05T20:45:00.002-04:00

Tattoos done by Nigel Palmer. His work is absolutely extraordinary.

2008-07-05T20:39:00.001-04:00

Dear God, I feel completely brain-dead. The weekend that held such promise has been pissed away by my sloth and adoration of my couch. Though things began somewhat social- I went out Thursday evening with my father’s friends and attempted a grill-out Friday afternoon- I have, for the past two days, spent the entire time in my pajamas indoors. For example, I am currently wearing my pajamas. At 8:05 on a Saturday evening.

To my defense, however, the quarter is bound to get unbearably busy any moment now, so I suppose if there were ever a time to slip into a Seinfeld/beer-induced coma, this is it. I’ve enjoyed myself, I suppose, with the exception of that horrible dizzy feeling one gets after sitting and staring at screens too long.

Hey, I mowed the lawn today. I saw the sun. Don’t hate.

Next week I begin training for a server position at P.F Chang’s. The job is the most ideal I could hope for and probably the most lucrative available, but is quite a commitment for the three months that I’ll be in Cincinnati. Training will take a couple of weeks, at the very least, and I need money now. I needed money last week. Things are getting dicey. Though I realize I’ve spoken of monetary woes many a time on this blog before, my bills have always been minimal. So minimal they hardly classify as bills. Now, however, I have rent to pay, as well as medical bills for a Jameson-induced ordeal that occurred while I was on co-op. It’s actually an enormously amusing story that I will tell in depth sometime later, provided everyone promises to suspend their judgment, well, indefinitely.

Classes are off to an abnormally slow start. We had been told that summer classes were noticeably more lax than conventional terms, and indeed the rumors are true. We’re designing a power tool, and I’m very excited with my idea. After watching my mum attempt to use floor edgers on multiple occasions, I’ve decided it’s finally time that they were improved. I have many ideas for the redesign, some reasonable and some completely out there, so I’m not too worried about the project at this moment in time. My floor edger will be awesome.

I think I want a tattoo. At least I have begun the process of contemplating one. I adore typographic tattoos and am considering getting one of the Dostoevsky passage I posted earlier this year. Both my father and Cindy think it’s a horrible idea, which is not too surprising, what with them being parents and all. The gears in my little head have begun to turn, and the thought of a huge passage on the side of my torso intrigues me.

This post is scatter-brained and sloppily written, but I must settle for whatever absent-minded dross I am able to force out of myself. I haven’t written in quite a while. Eloquence will follow with time.

2008-06-29T13:14:00.001-04:00

It’s been a while since I was last here, in front of my once-beloved blank screen and blinking cursor. I haven’t written in ages, and I’m sad for this; as I look back over my blog this afternoon I realize how valuable this journal is to me. I’m sad that I don’t have the past two years catalogued and documented as well as the previous two. Oh well. I’ve been busy.

So much has changed. So much. Rereading my posts from 2004 and 2005 is a surreal activity; I can’t believe my situation was once so radically different from what it is now, and I can’t believe that I was so radically different from what I am today. The changes, though, are for the best, I believe, and I am happy.

Damn, I was a pretentious motherfucker. Dear God. I’ve chilled out a ton. Nowadays I rejoice in things that are blue-collared rather than blue blooded; I enjoy a cheap beer on the patio on a hot summer’s day and affordable clothing, and have adopted an attitude that is inclusive rather than exclusive. I think abandoning the pursuit of “poetic” writing for poetry’s sake will leave me with a lot less bullshit and a lot more substance.

I am back in school after my three-month internship at whirlpool, living in a dumpy yet charming apartment next to school with two architecture students. I’m seeing Ben, an industrial designer who also works at whirlpool and lives in Chicago, and I’ll see him in two weeks time at an Al Green concert in Chi town (I am SO excited. Al Green is, well, there are no adjectives. He’s Al Green. Enough said). I have yet to find a job and I am DEAD broke, but not too worried about it.

Thus is the status quo. Summer in Cincinnati is lazy, exquisite and full of subtle pleasures.

2008-03-23T15:46:00.001-04:00

I have so many things to say that I don’t know how to go about saying them. I’ve never felt so miserable in my life, and this misery manifests itself in a sluggishness that further encourages my depression. I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what to do, and every time I sit down to write about my confusion I just feel an unyielding desire to sleep. I am impatient and frustrated with everyone in my life, with the exception of Bryan and my mother. I don’t want to say goodbye to Bryan, I don’t want to unpack my things, I don’t want to go to Michigan. I want nothing other than to cry myself to a dreamless, thoughtless sleep. Even though sleep is my only solace, I am terrified I will reach for his arm while lost in my dormancy, wishing to be held, just to wake and find that I am alone on a couch and not in my bed with him.

I didn’t know I would miss him this much.

2008-03-08T20:20:00.000-05:00

Rachael (interior monologue): “And I’ll just pop out that gradient there a bit, just to highlight the edge of the side window...”

Computer: “You want to use a WHAT size brush after running photoshop and illustrator simultaneously for nine hours straight? Cute, real cute.”

Rachael: “There we go...”

Computer: “What did I tell you? What do I ever tell you? Why don’t you ever listen? We play this game all the time, I have to crash on you, and then all of a sudden I’m the bad guy. Just, just chill. Surf the web for a while, why don’t you? Read some gossip, god, FACEBOOK if you have to, just give the massive aps a break.”

Rachael: “And that overlay is looking a bit much, I’ll just knock it down a bit...”

Computer: “YOU CRAZY BITCH! I will crash on yo’ ass so fast you won’t know what hit you OR your cartoonish, sophomoric rendering!”

Rachael: “This rendering is looking awesome. I am a badass.”

Computer: “...”

Rachael: “Maybe just a bit more shadow...”

Computer: *bipzewwww…*

Rachael: “Fuck! NO!! God no! You piece of shit! FUCK!!! ...

Computer: ...

Rachael: “... This must be karmic retribution for picking all of the raspberries out of the fruit salad Cindy made this afternoon.”

Computer: “GOOD GOD YOU’RE DUMB!”

2008-03-08T00:18:00.001-05:00

Big news: after a quarter of waiting and fretting, my day has come. I can finally sigh, wipe the perspiration from my forehead and neglect my schoolwork with an ounce of validation. I got my first co-op.

Come March 31 I will be an official employee of Whirlpool’s platform studio.

I was offered my co-op later in the quarter than some. The pressure grew even more unbearable with every student that found a job; I was beginning to doubt my talent and my ability. The apprehension caused many people to jump at the first job they were offered. Luckily enough, I was offered two of the best co-ops at the same time: Whirlpool and New Balance. Not only did I score an awesome co-op, but I managed to land two of the best available to sophomores. The humility gained during the past couple of months melted away in an instant. I am, once again, the unbearably arrogant yet awesome person you all knew and loved previously, now complete with my first design job.

The decision between Whirlpool and New Balance was a tough one, even though I would love to do appliances and have no interest in shoes; Whirlpool pays for housing in Benton Harbor, Michigan, whereas I would be left to my own devices when working for New Balance in Boston, New Balance, however, is located in Boston as opposed to Benton Harbor, Michigan. Some could say that New Balance holds more prestige than Whirlpool, but Whirlpool offers the type of design work I’m looking for. The scales were even until I remembered that Whirlpool throws a free Kitchen Aid stand mixer into the deal. To Whirlpool I go. I am thrilled, and currently feeling like quite the badass.

An appliance-designing badass, that is.

More later when I’m not quite as tired.

2008-03-07T20:38:00.003-05:00

"I hope I didn't bring up a sensitive subject when I mentioned Barb earlier today."

"What?" My father asked me, somewhat confused. The girlfriend of Cindy's 20 year old son, Austin, had delivered a baby the previous Sunday. Family relations are messy at this point, and by messy I mean that they put episodes of Jerry Springer to shame. All the same, a baby had been delivered, Cindy had become a grandmother -I suppose we can suspend that statement until the paternity tests have been taken care of- I felt it appropriate to inquire after the health of the parents and child.

"Today, when I mentioned Barb's delivery. She looked downright pissed, to be honest."

"Oh the baby! No, not at all. She is absolutely twitterpated with that child, through and through. Absolutely beautiful baby girl."

"Have you seen the baby?"

"No!" He barked. "I don't trust them."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing like a baby to make blubbering idiots out of otherwise sane people," he explained.

2008-02-23T10:48:00.001-05:00

So, it seems, whether we are ready or need more time, whether we are eager for change or reluctant to get off the couch and face what is happening, life marches on. The monotonous landscape of February instills in me a deep, powerful listlessness that I have found difficult to overcome. Despite the overwhelming amount of schoolwork I have yet to get a handle of, I have never slept so much in my life, nor have I felt as tired. Normally I would panic at the thought of my being behind in school, and yet...I don’t care... and would rather nap than think about it.

A dangerous mentality, to say the least.

Bryan and I, as I’m sure my nonexistent readers were able to gather from my latest post, are breaking up. This Sunday I will drive him to the airport and send him off to Salt Lake to interview with several architecture firms. I have never been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve; I survive such experiences by slowly dealing with my sentiments when I have the time to be alone and address them exclusively. I have no choice but to concentrate on school, a co-op and finding a place to live- well, attempt to concentrate, that is; as mentioned earlier, I’ve had trouble focusing as of late- and it must seem to those around me that I am unaffected by this break up. Regardless of how things appear, I am completely, entirely, and desolately broken-hearted, and will be for some time.

It helps that the reasons for our split are mostly technical, I suppose. There is no lack of love or trust; there is no betrayal, no inability to compromise or lack of desire. There is a young woman and a man eighteen years her senior who need different things. Bryan and I have always been best friends as well as lovers, and I predict that after we have had time to mend our wounds we will continue to be good friends. I will always love him- the things I love about him haven’t changed, after all- and I hope that he finds happiness, fulfillment, and contentment. I know he will.

As for myself, I hope that I am able to find a co-op, an apartment, and a way to fix my currently dysfunctional computer. DAAP’s ID program is highly regarded because of the co-op program, which allows students to spend a year and a half in different cities working in the field. Thank GOD for the program, because the actual classes can be something of a joke from time to time. The co-op experience is invaluable and thrilling; the jobs pay well and some are located in wonderful places: New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Seattle, London, and so on and so forth. The trick, of course, is finding a job, which I have yet to do. I have submitted my portfolio, which is badass in every sense of the word, and I am waiting to hear back from employers. The wait is absolutely tortuous, and is resulting in my becoming a more humble person by the day. Not the worst thing in the world, I suppose.

My computer is functioning normally, with the exception of one very important modeling program that refuses to run. The problem, my papa speculates, is Windows (as always! I can’t believe I had to taint my perfect mac with that shitty OS). I am thus uninstalling and reinstalling windows today. Fuck you, winXP, fuck you.

*obnoxiously thrusts two middle fingers up at computer screen*

Later on today I’m attending the 20th century modern art exhibition with a couple of studio mates, after which we will return to one of their apartments to drink and make hot wings. Tomorrow I have to go check out renting a room in an apartment close to campus. I would have two male architecture students as roommates, which is not ideal, but you really can’t beat $209+utilities and a two second walk to DAAP.

Life marches on, as I said before, and I’m just going to have to trail behind and try to catch up. I hope warm weather will invigorate and inspire me. I guess I’ll just cross my fingers and wait and see.

2008-02-09T15:08:00.000-05:00

Holy Shit, Y'all!

I've officially had this blog for four years. FOUR YEARS. That's precisely one-fifth of my existence thus far. Four years.

Huh.

2008-02-02T16:49:00.001-05:00

It feels like sacrilege to call you darling. I feel very differently from the way I felt last night, but that sentiment remains the same. I forget you completely between these spurts of regret and longing, when we’re sitting side by side on the couch, miles away from one another, watching the thing that was once our love whine and die. I hate myself for allowing these past months to taint my porcelain-delicate memories of you and what we’ve shared for the past three years.

The only thing, the only thing I want in this world is you, not as you are now- cold, hard, resentful- but as you were before, as we were before, when we ran to the world bravely, unafraid, so deeply, fervently, madly in love that my body aches to think about it.

Like clockwork I wake at eight in the morning, dry mouthed but not hung over. I sit on a stranger’s couch, a copy of a copy of a copy, a reiteration so distant that I have begun to fade and lose all distinction; once a possessor of an object so impassioned, so lucid that it vividly cuts into my mind like a scalpel into unblemished skin, now a reason for passersby to snicker with shrewd assumption: a stained shirt, smeared eye liner, half a bottle of rum.

Here, on a small couch in a vaguely familiar apartment, is where I grieve for you. I am alone; I will always be alone when I allow myself to feel this way. I am sorry I cannot do this in front of you. I mourn for you the way a mother mourns a son, a sister a brother, a fan a hero. We can never go back, I’m afraid, to the luscious delirium of yesteryears, the intoxicated fantasy of new love that we managed to suspend for three years. We can never love each other again without the stinging memory of this January’s cruelty and the things we have done. Already our love begins to slip out of focus and become a mirage-like haze down the road. The girls chat up their scandal at hand while I, deaf to their prattle, long for the original other. Masochistically my mind will float to you in the years to come; a soft breeze will blow on my face some sunny afternoon, and I will remember singing loudly to David Bowie while on our way down to North Carolina in a rented car, Bavarian bagels at servattii in the chill of early morning, moon pies brought home to me after a bad day, notes left on a studio desk, a man who cared, a man who loved, a man with the capacity to comfort, protect, hurt and torture me,
a man gone far, far and forever away.

2007-10-30T07:16:00.000-04:00

It's 7:16 in the morning, and I am sitting on the dusty, dirty floor of DAAP's third floor, waiting to be taught how to weld. Vanessa said they were meeting for an orientation this morning at 7, but as time creeps closer to 7:30 I grow progressively more convinced that I misheard her. Underneath the door of the shop, however, a light creeps out and dances on the finish of the concrete floor; either a light is always left on in the shop, regardless of whether or not it is open, or my comrades will emerge from the room in several moments as master welders, leaving me to return for orientation yet another time.

*sigh*

Well, I suppose I should explain how I found myself at this particular moment. The last time you heard from me was in mid August, during a particularly amusing fight with Bryan. This morning I'm bundled up in a coat, scarf, and moderately practical shoes. Two months have passed, I've been to Paris and back, started school and am half way done with the quarter. My, how time flies.

Paris was spectacular and unlike anything I have ever seen. Like many others I know, I've been bitten by the illusion that I will learn French, snag a fabulous Parisian job, and be living in the Marais in a matter of years. Will this happen? Perhaps not. I will, however, certainly return to the city of light many times in the next couple of years. The city and the way of life is beautiful. I have many pictures to post.

School has also been going well. I spend 60 hours in the studio a week, but I've done well in most of my work. I have yet to find motivation for some classes- drawing, for instance- but I've felt inspired in most other areas. I've developed a solid routine that involves taking the bus, packing a lunch, working my ass off during the week so that I can spend time with Bryan on the weekends; basically I'm finally doing all the stuff I should have been doing last year.

I look up from my laptop to find the shopkeeper, Jim, rushing towards me with profuse apologies and mutterings about sleeping in, a sick cat, and some distorted comment about "that damn dishwasher repair man". He unlocks the door of the shop, waves me in, and asks me to throw my bag in a corner and grab a welding mask. A glance at a torn piece of loose lief taped to the office door informs me that I'm a day early for the orientation. I keep this bit of information to myself in hopes that I can get certified today and sleep in tomorrow. Jim is bustling about the office, clearly still half-asleep, ironically droning on about the importance of alertness and awareness while welding.

Within half and hour I am savvy to the processes of the spot-welder, plasma cutter, and welding machine. A mark is punched on my shop ID to indicate my ability. Tootsie Rolls are thrust in my hand with further apologies for the tardiness. Another comment about "that degenerate" the repairman can be heard among his ramblings. I saunter off towards the cafe for a bagel and coffee.

I am, once again, where I so often find myself to be: in studio. I have drawing to do and a bit of research to conduct. I look out the window and see students walking towards their first classes of the day, and I think of the friends I haven't seen in ages and the normal college diversions I don't have time for. I allow myself to look up for a moment more before grabbing a sheet of 11x17 copy paper and beginning to draw.

2007-08-16T22:04:00.000-04:00

Oh, I could kill him! I could absolutely kill him! Twenty five minutes ago I was tired, worn out by an exhausting double at work and quite ready for bed, but now my blood is surging and I am anything but tired. The nerve! I ask you! I don't think I should let it pass lightly, to be honest with you; just as with dogs and children, boyfriends will continue bad behavior if left unchecked. But I ask you! Am I a fucking dog owner? A mother? I think not! Gngngngngnkigkjfsdjksgkj!!!

Argh. Anyways. Things are as they usually are. I've been working a lot lately in preparation for school and for a trip to Paris, the thought of which would be much more enjoyable were I not traveling by the good grace of the aforementioned jackass. My birthday was last Sunday, which was absolutely perfect- the aforementioned jackass was not a jackass at all last weekend, but rather a perfect gentleman, regardless of his current jackass status- and yesterday I ordered an expensive, delightfully unnecessary digital SLR camera. I've made good money all this week at work, too, though I think it might finally be time for me to serve at a fine dining establishment. Everything is fine, with the exception of the boy.

Honestly! It would be too fucking simple if he were logical, wouldn't it? Too ideal, too easy. Real relationships aren't ideal, but rather so stuffed with bullshit at times that the only real solution to the problem is a particularly large bottle of liquor.

The aforementioned jackass just texted me, saying that he acted like a jackass and to please call him. I called him. Why the fuck did I call him? God, I have no spine. I do, however, have a large bottle of liquor. I am a spineless drinker.

At least I drink good liquor.

2007-07-30T09:37:00.000-04:00

"But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over everything- every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would overcome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've come to the conclusion that there isn't, that is till I am thirty, and then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some drivelling consumptive moralists- and poets especially- often call that thirst for life base. It's a feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of everything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base? The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, thought I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one's heart prizes them. [...] I want to travel to Europe, Alyosha, I shall set of from here. And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most precious graveyard, that's what it is! Precious are the dead that lie there, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them; though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in emotion. I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky- that's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you understand anything of my tirade, Alyosha?" Ivan laughed suddenly.

"I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think everyone should love life above everything in the world."

"Love life more than the meaning of it?"

"Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, "The Brothers Karamazov"

2007-06-08T14:35:00.001-04:00

lookie: I've learned to draw....
self-portrait
colored pencil on cansen

2007-06-01T15:09:00.000-04:00

Today I completed and turned in my last studio project. Though my last exam is not until Wednesday, I experienced the true pain and horror of design finals last week. Two days ago I turned in my design drawing process book, yesterday I turned in my space studio work, and today I turned in a portfolio of the work completed this year. The portfolio is a pdf created in InDesign, and it turned out quite lovely. Considering, however, that my technological incompetence turns the posting of pictures into a complex debacle- even with blogger’s super user-friendly setup- an attempt to post a pdf would result in the spontaneous combustion of my head. We don’t want that. Rather, I plan to bombard you with massive amounts of pictures.

This school year has been like nothing I’ve ever experienced: a dream-like blur of stress and expectation that consumed me so wholly, so completely, that I only now feel as if I’ve returned to the world I knew before. Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic; foundations studies, though challenging weed-out classes, are nothing, nothing, compared to program work. My life, however, has changed because of it. Not only have the components of my life shifted, but I have stumbled upon a sense of specified purpose that I am moving towards at break-neck speed. This time next year I will be returning from a co-op in a design firm. The summer I start on Wednesday will be my last; after this year the breaks between quarters will be two weeks long at most. Come September I will begin my industrial design classes, and in the blink of an eye I will be facing graduation.

I’ve been dreading summer. I’m worried that I’ll have nothing to do. I’m also worried that I will burn out of the restaurant industry much sooner than I am allowed to. Waiting tables is my bread and butter for the next 4 years, yet I’m already sick of it. I absolutely loathe it.

I have fun travel plans for this summer, however. Rob will be marrying his delightful fiance Jasmin on July 7th, and I will be traveling to Salt Lake to attend the wedding, and in September Bryan and I will spend 5 days in Paris. Until then I will be working, sleeping in, dressing up, going out, and saying goodbye to the summers of my youth. This is, after all, the last one.

2007-05-30T17:05:00.000-04:00

I have 10 minutes to write before work; I just skimmed over a friend of a friend's blog, and I immediately felt guilty for neglecting my own. My busy schedule has little room for niceties such as writing, I'm afraid, and because of it I've written very few posts over the past year. This is disheartening, considering that I used to post 7 days a week, but oh well; such is DAAP, after all. Though I'll have no written record to document this past year, I have all sorts of school work that I'm gathering for my portfolio. I've learned to draw this past year; I draw quite well, actually. I suppose I've grown quite a bit but have yet to reflect upon it.

Reflection will come soon; one week from today I will be free for the summer. Granted, I'll be working 40 hours a week, but I suspect my free time will be exponentially more plenteous than it was during the school year. I hope to write and draw plenty over the summer, seeing as this is the last 3-month carefree break I'll ever enjoy, but we'll have to see if any of these lofty goals come to fruition.

note: I've sacrificed my editing time for the sake of quantity. Don't judge if I've misspelled every other world. I am a product of the spell-check generation, after all.

2007-05-11T16:38:00.000-04:00

New Hair

2007-04-17T16:27:00.000-04:00

And a picture of Bryan and I, just because...

2007-04-17T16:14:00.000-04:00

Because I know how much everybody has been dying to see what I spend all of my time on, and also because I finished the project early and have nothing to do, I present to you the semi-regular polyhedron I've designed over the past week and a half (in sepia tone, for reasons unbeknownst to me):

2007-03-28T16:10:00.001-04:00

Oh dear god. I am back in school after a short spring break respite. It was all too short, I’m afraid; it feels as if I finished my winter finals yesterday, yet here I am, flipping through 6 new syllabi and buying books again. I finished winter quarter with exactly the same grades as fall quarter: all A’s save an A- in Wolf’s impossible drawing course. I am proud of myself and confident in my chances for a scholarship, so I’ll be holding my breath from now until May.

Much to my dismay, Space studio this quarter is going to resemble fall quarter and not winter quarter; fall quarter was marked by the dreaded, time-consuming “paint-chip” color exercises, whereas all winter work was completed on a computer and consequently less tedious. This quarter, however, we are completing a series of exercises all executed by folding paper. I began school on Monday, and my first all-nighter of the quarter will be tonight.

I am taking my studio courses, a political philosophy course, and an analysis of Shakespeare course, which I am quite excited about. Work is the same: Wednesday and Friday evenings at Mimi’s cafe, resulting in a weekly income of $150. Mum discovered she could add me onto her car insurance, which would save me $75 a month, but I don’t have 6 months pay upfront, unfortunately, and can’t take advantage of the opportunity.

Bryan’s birthday is on the 10th, and I’m terribly worried that finances will prevent me from providing him with a fantastic birthday. When I express these financial concerns he always bats the issue away with a “don’t get me anything”. I know him though, and I know how he loves surprises. I’m going to bake a magnificent cake and collect a few excellent gifts. I’m a resourceful gal, after all, and I always seem to pull through ordeals such as this.

Today will be a taxing day. I have drawing studio in 10 minutes, at which time I will begin a still life that I’ll have to finish over the weekend. I then rush to Mason to work at 5- and I think I’m closing tonight, to boot- and then I must return downtown for a couple of hours of studio work. I look forward to the summer, when I will have completed the first year of my major with flying colors. All is well, dearest readers, though you and I don’t see too much of each other any more. I’ll try to report back more often.

2007-03-16T16:00:00.000-04:00

Queen Bee and the Ruffians

I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.

The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.

When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.

I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.

Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.

“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.

“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.

“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”

“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”

“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”

“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”

“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.

“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”

“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.

“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”

“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.

As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.

They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.

I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.

“25%” I said.

“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”

“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”

“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”

“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.

“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”

I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.

2007-01-22T19:02:00.001-05:00

"Why Rachael, why do you post your column on your blog though it can be read on the newsrecord's site?"

"Lo, dear reader: my editor takes my 850 word article of comedic goodness and butchers it into 580 words of quirkless ugliness."

2007-01-22T19:02:00.000-05:00

Advances in technology and procedure have revolutionized our society and pulled us out of the dark abyss of antiquity in almost every aspect of daily life. There are practices, however, that still plague us with their inconvenience, inefficiency, and incompetence. The process of purchasing textbooks, for example, is in dire need of further evolution. Though buying used textbooks online is a good way to avoid the anguish of paying full price, many times the process is just as painful.

For the most part my experiences with sites such as amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com have been positive; in a matter of minutes I’ve been able to locate the needed textbook for a twentieth of what it costs new and commence the new quarter. The organization and clever layout of the popular sites makes ordering books completely painless. For a brief moment we naive students dance our celebratory dances, ecstatically calculate our hundreds of dollars in savings, and aggressively put two figurative fingers up to the system with all the mutinous rebellion we can muster. But when our books have yet to arrive three weeks later, our camaraderie begins to dwindle and we look ashamedly to our hated nemesis: the bookstore.

It seems a step in the wrong direction to shop at the bookstore in light of our many options. The truth of the matter, however, is that textbooks are actually fairly priced, and campus bookstores only keep 4.5% of textbooks sales (after operating costs, personnel, and taxes have been paid). There is no big-business villain clutching a dollar-stamped bag to blame for the price of textbooks. “Academic books, especially specialized ones for graduate courses, have a lower sales volume than popular books, causing costs to be spread out over a smaller base number, thereby increasing a book's unit cost,” explains a statement recently released from the University of Cincinnati’s Department of University Relations.

Thus there is no easy fix to the problem of high textbook costs. Students have found ways to get creative, but any alternative method will have its pros and cons. No company can mass-distribute used goods for the low prices that individual sellers can, and unfortunately that is where the steals are found on sites such as amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com (buying books new from these sites provide the consumer with the dependability of a big seller, but is seldom much cheaper than the bookstore). Buying from an individual seller is cumbersome, and anyone who has ever dealt with Ebay will know that; few sellers are easy to get in contact with, professional, and prompt. The sellers that carry the texts students need are most often other students and therefore even less likely to execute an online transaction with professionalism. Orders are sometimes cancelled- as were three of mine this quarter- or delayed, and at times the savings made possible by this bothersome process are completely negated, especially if one has to hunt down and photocopy library copies to complete the first couple of assignments. Ordering textbooks a month ahead of time also has its disadvantages; if you’re anything like me and the other 20% of students who refuse to buy a text until reading has been assigned- nothing is more frustrating than dropping $60 on a book that the teacher never uses- then ordering books prematurely is not the most attractive option.

It seems as if whether we buy our books from the bookstore or order them online we will be left wrathfully swearing under our breath. As seamless as amazon.com may make the process seem, textbooks will continue to act as the vile bane of our existence for some time to come. Though tiresome the old adage may be, it certainly rings true in this case: “If it seems to good to be true, it probably is”.

2007-01-22T19:01:00.000-05:00

On November 7th, 2006, Ohioans voted to ban smoking in public places. Two months later, after the proverbial smoke has cleared, the disgruntled, defeated individuals opposed to the bill have angrily sauntered home for a consolatory cigarette, and the victors zealously enjoy the triumph, public smoking can still be found in restaurants, bars, and doorways all over the city; eyebrows are beginning to raise. Though the bill has been enacted since December 7th, the Ohio Health Department, which is responsible for enforcing the ban, will not do so until regulations have been decided upon. The board of health has until June to begin enforcement of the ban, though Health Department spokesman Jay Carey said that they anticipate enforcement to begin in early April.

Until then, Cincinnati will wait in limbo. The Hamilton County Health Commissioner has been quoted as saying that 90% of the county’s restaurants and bars were smoke-free upon inspection, yet a Cincinnati Enquirer article published last Friday named several establishments that still proudly permit smoking. Due to the legal complications impeding enforcement of the ban, the Health Department hands out what little punishment it can to those blatantly resisting the law: an informational letter politely outlining the demands of the law, a metaphorical slap on the wrist so mild it almost seems playful. Like the rent-a-cops that patrol our nation’s malls, the helpless ban nearly begs you to steal its pristine hat and engage in a game of keep-away. Restaurants that feel no need to post the required “no smoking” signs now flaunt signs that instead say “smoking permitted”.

A lack of uniform compliance to the new law will give the owners of many establishments reason to complain, and rightfully so; a state-wide smoking ban will not prevent smokers and non-smokers alike from frequenting restaurants and bars, but a poorly-enforced one will detrimentally impact businesses in full observance of the law. Though a surge in bar patrons across the river in Kentucky wouldn’t be too surprising, I doubt smokers would abandon their favorite bar in Mason, Ohio in favor of one 35 minutes away simply for the right to smoke inside. If, however, bars across the street allowed smoking, one could easily understand how smoke-free bars would lose business to their local, dissentious brethren.

This past Saturday I visited three bars and two restaurants around the city to see how many were following the new law, and to hear the general opinions of the employees and patrons. Only one of the five had posted a sign and effectively removed smoking; not only were the other four full of customers happily and proudly puffing their favorite tobacco, but the employees behind the bar in three of the establishments spoke with me while Bogarting Marlboros. One patron- who good naturedly said I could cite him as only “Jimmy the Greek”- represented the opinions of most of the individuals I spoke with: until inspectors start handing out tickets, he’s not going to stop smoking in his favorite bar unless “someone puts a gun to [his] head”. Expensive fines, however, will succeed in prohibiting Jimmy and his friends from smoking in public. Only one patron refused to entertain the thought of complying: “It’s my right to smoke, and these tickets sound more amusing than intimidating”, the patron said, as he tapped a cigarette in an ashtray in front of him.

Bruce Rose, of Northside’s newly smoke-free Blue Jay Restaurant, however, says that the majority of serious restaurants will not risk blatant disobedience to the ban, and that the restaurant he works in hasn’t lost a bit of business because of the smoking ban. A red “no smoking” sign is the first thing that greets costumers as they walk into the Blue Jay, and ashtrays and cigarettes are nowhere to be seen. Bruce isn’t thrilled about the change because he himself is a smoker, but he doesn’t particularly care whether or not other Cincinnati bars resist the ban. “Why would they?” he asked, well aware of the lack of enforcement.

Such is the tone amongst many in regards to the unprepared and sloppily executed ban. Regardless of whether or not one supports or disagrees with the law, we can all see how premature enactment has led to confusion and made it hard for all of us to take it seriously. Is Cincinnati really delusional enough a city to think that sense of duty alone will hold controversial change intact? Enacting the ban before enforcement is possible was a mistake, but at least it has given smokers downtown something to laugh about until the city cracks down on smoking later this year. And who knows? Even April may not bring the transformation we’ve all been expecting since last November. “Come on, honey,” Jimmy jovially laughed as he looked around the strident, raucous inhabitants of his local bar. “If a health inspector walked in here and started writing us tickets, do you honestly think we’d let him leave?”

2007-01-22T19:00:00.000-05:00

With the remembrance of the United States’ astronomical obesity and energy consumption statistics burning brightly in the back of our minds, one is likely to guess, fatalistically enough, that the United States is losing the recycling game as well. Such is not the case: in a list that peaks at 49% and bottoms out at 4%, recycling statistics comparing European and North American countries showed that in 2001 the United States recycled 32% of the 409 million tons of generated waste.

The University of Cincinnati’s recycling statistics are no less impressive; in 2004 the University recycled 4,902 tons of waste, and, according to UC’s Administrative and Business Services website, has 115 toters in 29 buildings across campus devoted to recycling mixed office paper.

Do you use any of them?

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I’ve used these bins no more than three times during the school year (and that’s a rather optimistic estimate). I even know where many of the ninety-gallon toters are located- one sits strategically outside the freshman studios in the DAAP building, probably less than fifteen feet away from my locker and studio classes- yet I can’t recall embarking on the arduous, fifteen-foot pilgrimage to the recycling bin (There goes my right to condemn American apathy, I suppose).

This realization, however humiliating, has led me to the belief that if UC’s recycling habits have room for improvement- and of course they do- the students and faculty should be the first to change. UC has provided students with an easy, accessible way to recycle. If the average student is anything like me, however, then UC students are not taking advantage of the opportunity.

Clearly recycling needs to be brought back to the attention of students and faculty. The 1990s boasted a nation-wide elevated awareness of the importance of recycling, but the past few years have shown waned enthusiasm. In 2002 Americans only recycled 21% of plastic bottles, as opposed to the 37% we recycled in 1995. Has this trend of indifference extended to the University of Cincinnati?

When I first began pondering this article, I thought of several improvements that needed to be made to UC Recycling: I find the absence of those ever-amusing can-crushing devices to be quite bothersome, and I’ve always been befuddled as to why America doesn’t have the quad garbage/recycling bins I’ve seen on every corner in Norway, Germany, and Spain. Reflecting on the minimal use I get out of the bins we do have on campus, however, makes me wonder whether or not we’d actually make use of additional options. Stuffing our recyclables into the wrong compartment of a quad container out of stupidity, carelessness, or juvenile and sick amusement seems a behavior much more likely to be displayed by American college students.

What could be done to recapture our concern? Perhaps flyers posted above trash cans, a brief reminder given by teachers at the beginning of each quarter, or campus-wide incentives (“STUDENTS GRANTED DISCOUNTED PARKING PASSES FOR RECYCLING”) would bring student’s attention back to our crucial need to recycle. As inconsequential as these actions may be, I suspect they would successfully encourage students to recycle (especially the parking thing; I bet we’d ceremoniously offer our grandmothers to the heathenistic gods of recycling- all while wearing loin cloths and war paint- if it meant free parking). The many benefits of recycling are well known, and it is an activity many agree with but simply forget to support. Hopefully we can focus our efforts and, as students, faculty and employees, aid UC’s efforts to recycle and produce less waste. Which, as estimated by the Environmental Protection Agency, “are equivalent to planting approximately 3,300,000 trees.

2007-01-18T17:56:00.000-05:00

I have a million things I could be doing right now: the form assignment that was assigned less than 30 minutes ago, the comparative literature essay that is due next Thursday, the 15 sketches for drawing that is due next Wednesday, the stock portfolio for economics, review of art history, and so on and so forth. However, I have decided to give in to my complete inability to focus, and piddle about instead during my one-hour break between form studio and economics. I’ve been at school since 9:30 this morning (and I’ll be in class until nine this evening!), and have lost motivation.

The day has been productive, so to speak. Despite printing problems I had this morning I was able to attend all three classes punctually and prepared. Quite honestly, though, I always have printer problems. Printing at home is not an option, because neither my father nor Bryan has a printer heavy-duty (read: decent) enough to do the trick, the computer graphics center does not allow the use of specialty paper, and kinkos is full of useless middle-aged delinquents too preoccupied with their general failure as human beings to be of any assistance (I’ve made a couple of enemies there). Not only does my father’s printer do a horrible job, but also upon warming up it hisses, beeps, and rattles with such fury that I suspect complete possession by a most violent spirit. Between the printer demon of hell, the CGC’s flimsy paper, and kinkos band of ruffians, I am left with no way to print my assignments, save my own creativity and resourcefulness. In the end I conceded to the gods of big business, and went to kinkos- the one up in Mason, not the criminal-ridden one down here by UC.

I don’t feel very well. All I’ve had to eat today is the breakfast I had back home in Mason and vending-machine junk from DAAP. Subsequently my eye has been twitching maniacally since the early afternoon. Half way through studio, when I muttered to my studio mates about my ailment, Whitney relayed to me the fact that such conditions are brought on by unhealthy eating habits. I nodded with interest as I plunged my hand back into a bag of potato chips I had purchased earlier.

Economics is upon me, I’m afraid, so I must dash. This is the last class of the day, luckily enough, considering that it’s three steady hours of dry economics.

2007-01-18T00:03:00.000-05:00

I hope all is well, my dearest readers, and that we are collectively pulling through the sludge of post-holiday January unscathed. What a dreadful time of year this always is; money is tight, everywhere, and the few people dining out let their pending Macy's bill prevent them from tipping decently. Winter is snuggling into the landscape, settling down for a long, lingering nap, and we poor inhabitants simply don't have Christmas/Hanukah/Kwanza to distract us from the inclement weather. Speaking of, however, who in the US actually celebrates Kwanza? Is its inclusion yet another half-assed attempt to recognize the mistreated African Americans of this country, the majority of which have never been to Africa and couldn't care less about Kwanza? Honestly. That's neither here nor there, I suppose, but is a rant of the season regardless.

Things are well here in Cincinnati. I am back in school, however, and have decided to be honest and realistic about my abilities: I won't write when I'm in school. Though the therapeutic benefits of the activity are direly needed when I'm in the middle of a quarter, there's simply no time. Luckily enough for me, I've decided to make time, in a way; I now have a weekly opinion column for the University of Cincinnati's News Record. As silly as it sounds, I'm quite proud of it and roughly 50% of the stuff I write (sometimes time runs out and one must publish rubbish. I am not excusing this, but it happens nonetheless). Its basically similar to the things I whine about here, but published consistently. If you are interested, go to newsrecord.org and click on opinion. On the opinion page you will find the brilliantly titled column "sensible skeptical", and, quite luckily, no picture (the one they took for the hard copies is horrid). I would post a direct link, but I am tired and cold and ready for bed. It's late and I must get up early to complete studio work. Also, I think I am catching Bry Bry's cold. That is all.

2006-12-28T14:14:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-12-27T13:03:00.000-05:00

Happy Holidays to all!

Cincinnati Union Terminal, built 1931

2006-12-22T10:18:00.000-05:00

2006-12-22T10:10:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-07T00:20:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-09-20T19:29:00.000-04:00

still testing....

2006-09-20T19:07:00.000-04:00

test....test...

2006-09-20T14:28:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-09-12T16:13:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-09-12T16:09:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-24T17:17:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-13T13:41:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-09T17:24:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-08T16:37:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-07-26T16:03:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-25T16:46:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-07-19T11:27:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-07-11T16:20:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-06-28T16:25:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-06-28T10:40:00.000-04:00

This is going to make Bryan very happy.

2006-06-28T10:28:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-06-21T23:51:00.000-04:00

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

I win.

2006-06-21T15:59:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-06-21T12:45:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-21T12:44:00.000-04:00

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

-Taken from Dangerous Liaisons

2006-06-21T12:41:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-06-16T16:33:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-06-05T15:14:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-05-21T22:56:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-05-20T00:11:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-05-05T12:11:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-05-05T02:38:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-28T11:44:00.000-04:00

brilliance.

2006-04-27T10:45:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-26T17:11:00.000-04:00

2006-04-26T16:53:00.000-04:00

2006-04-26T11:46:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-25T23:36:00.000-04:00

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

cow + labor = bad.

2006-04-25T16:33:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-21T16:06:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-19T16:15:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-18T23:28:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-18T23:25:00.000-04:00

Works of Eyvind Earle, courtesy of gallery21.com

2006-04-18T23:24:00.000-04:00

2006-04-18T23:19:00.000-04:00

2006-04-18T23:04:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-04-17T11:33:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-12T13:21:00.000-04:00

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....

2006-04-05T13:43:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-04T19:04:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-04-04T18:48:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-03-30T17:27:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-29T18:49:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-20T22:14:00.000-05:00

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....

2006-03-16T10:11:00.000-05:00

“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...

2006-03-12T17:07:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-08T16:31:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-06T23:23:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-06T22:44:00.000-05:00

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.