It’s strange to think of companionship; I think the only thing that I’ve ever desired so fervently and yet simultaneously dreaded and feared to the point of aversion is God. There are times when I look and mum and Jeff, when I look at her past marriages and the other failed marriages that seem to obscure my mind, and I simply hate the idea. I loathe and hate and abhor the thought of tethering myself to an imperfect being. Not to say that I am perfect, quite the opposite; surely my flaws and insecurities block such a focal union. There are other times, however, when such a bond feels immensely correct, blissful and complete. I want to raise a family. I want to be a mother and a wife and even a grandmother, although that involves getting old and wrinkly. This topic is particularly divided for me.

Today mum and Jeff and I went to the Slavic festival. There, in the voluntary custody of the white tents and endless tables propping up a canopy of color and intrigue, mum and I stumbled upon a baby carriage. Not a stupid American stroller, but the trademark European carriage that makes the pains of labor a little less agonizing. How delicate it was! But beyond that, how flawless and beautiful and perfect is the being meant to inhabit it! I can barely fathom the joy of holding my own child, my little one. To share the exquisite challenge of parenthood with the man I love sounds superb.

But the aspect that makes this so beautiful is also what threatens me: the challenge. I doubt myself as to if I have the integrity or the ability to develop the maturity to make a marriage work. I can’t get along with people. Yes, mindless PR is simple for me, but actually interacting and communicating and loving someone boundlessly must be so hard.

So hard. I honestly don’t know it I could do it.

But at the same time I know that I can have any logical thing I want, as long as I am careful and work hard to deserve what I want. Thank heavens I don’t have to seriously think about this for another half-decade or so. Thank heavens I feel no pressure as of late (being 17 and all).

I don’t know. It scares me, yet enlivens me. This will definitely be a hardship for me, I know this much. It was for the bat, for mum, for every bleeding woman that seems to surround me. I see divorces left and right; failed marriages seem to be a theme in my family.

Like I stated above, how absolutely ripping that I don’t have to worry about this for a while.

I’ve accomplished quite a bit today, which pleases me. Today mum and I laid tile on the floor in the downstairs kitchen, and our self-cut mosaic looks absolutely smashing. I worked for 4 hours until mum, Jeff and I went to the slavic festival. The festival was amusing; I bought a beautiful doggey puppet that looks like an afghan hound, so naturally I named him Afi.

We then went shopping at market square, and as I was piling the little debbie snacks onto the register (4 boxes for a dollar, you see) I was surprise to see them reach my eye level when the counter only came up to my waist.

Maile’s homecoming is today, so I went over and curled her hair/ helped with the eye shadow/ freaked out with her about how she looked. She’s a very beautiful girl, and looked wonderful tonight. Too bad her date is hideous.

Only one thing is certain for the rest of the nigh: I need a shower and havn’t time to take one.

Bullocks. You can’t have it all, I suppose.

Oh, wait. It's working. Heh, sorry about that, blog. I didn't really want to eat you.

I wasn't hungry.

oh bugger! I came home to quickly change, etc, and go back to the studio and work. But no. I come home with one tiny desire: Change the picture on my profile. I change it- easy. But it won't change on my blog, which is what I was wanting to do. I'm sure I'm missing some button or another but I can't find it and I've flushed yet another hour down the moldy drain that blogger can sometimes be.

Argh. I'm going to eat you, blog! I'm going to eat you and then utter a negative comment about you. I'm going to eat you!!!! DIE!!!

I have an absolutely spectacular update for you all: I’m starting to understand physics. This is such a relief; my first couple of assignments I would sit down in front of my computer, look over a problem, and just start sobbing all over the keyboard. (There is very little exaggeration in this, which is rather sad, I know) But now it takes much more to drag me to tears, such as 3 minutes of investigating the problem, at the very least. My first exam is in one week, and since exams count for about 450% of our grade as in comparison to the pitiful 8% that homework accounts for, comprehension is extremely important. But I’m starting to understand; I’m feeling a wee bit less lost every time I look at physics. My newfound ability almost compensates for the fact that I’m forced to use a mac here in the library (shudder).

Well, the weekend is here at last *heaves a staggering sigh of relief*

Tonight I go home, eat, and watch a movie with mum. I shall have to remind myself in some fashion:

NO THINKING ALLOWED

But right now I’m going to go home, grab some supplies for the studio then come back to work a bit more on the fingerprint of perdition, and then go work out a tad at the field house.

Wow. Macs are even more stupid than I thought. It won’t let me paste into blogger from word (which has nothing to do with my stupidity, I promise) so I’m going to have to email it to myself and send it from home. Gag me!

 

 

*Yawn*

I’m ever so tired. Physics is hard, but I’ll get it down if I labor over the text enough.

Went to special needs today- it was absolutely fabulous.

Ralph Lauren Spring 2005 show is really, really, really cute.

That’s about all the news for today, I’m afraid. Write more tomorrow.

hello? 

What I do instead of physics: figure out our DXG camera 

The Grands are here for a brief visit. Vernon (known better to my siblings and me as Morfar) and his wife Glenda (note: Glenda is the bat’s successor, she married my grandfather probably a decade after the bat and Vernon went their separate but equally odd ways.) They are very education oriented, very concerned with becoming a learned individual. To assist us in this journey, they decided to take us to the Titanic exhibit downtown.

I didn’t really want to go; watching my fellow capitalists and opportunists milk an ancient travesty for every cent it’s worth isn’t something I’m going to condemn, but I’m not going to jump in line to join the whole ‘come get robbed blind by a maudlin, over dramatic display that’s dwarfed by our gift shop, which is then in turn dwarfed by the prices of the items in our colossal gift shop’ thing, however intrigued (or completely apathetic/disinterested) I am.

But whatever. Free food is a guarantee for afterwards, and who knows? I might snag some useless but shiny knickknack from the colossal gift shop, and I know that I love shiny objects…

The exhibit was actually very well-produced, though the fact that the interest in it would be close to nonexistent had it never been for Monsieur DiCaprio bugged me a bit. It was an interesting look into the beginning of the 20th century in this side of the world. There were parts of it that I loved, mainly the recreation of the separate rooms of the different classes and artifacts from the ship. What I loved the most, however, was the guest book. I don’t think I’ve ever been as tickled by pettiness as I was while I read.

“Thank you so much for this life-altering experience and allowing me to relive this sad, sad tale…”

“I never realized how much life was lost, I’m so glad my character lived” (They handed us boarding passes with the name and info of actual passengers on the Titanic, which was really cool. In the end you find out whether or not you lived. My woman rocked.)

“What a beautiful chance to explore this terrible, terrible tragedy. I am so thankful to be able to come through this for the third time!”

I picked up a pen, licked my lips, and began to write.

As I browsed through the gift shop I was amazed at how a boat sinking could bring in such loot. Nostalgia menus, fake jewelry, posters, books upon books upon books, soap dishes with a cruiser and iceberg floating in it, everything. These people must be ingenious.

“Oh my heavens, did you see that silly guestbook?” Mum muttered behind me while inspecting a bar of ‘titanic’ chocolate “on sale” for $4.95.

“Yeah,” I responded. “Did you write anything in it?”

“Ugh. No. You should have seen what people actually wrote in there! ‘My character was young and beautiful and only 25, and she died. How shocked I am to see how many ugly survivors were plucked from the wreckage when my upper-class flower withered and ruined her clothes in the freezing water….’”

I gasped

“I know.” My mother uttered in response. “Can you believe that someone wrote that nonsense?”

“Well of course I can believe it, mum,” I said. “What horrifies me is your failure to recognize and identify my finesse, my unique and novel voice bursting through the mawkish pages of that tribble, my insight and striking world view…”

“I could have guessed. How did I miss that?”

“I have no idea. I hope you realize how offended I am.” I defensively declared.

“Something tells me I never will.” She asserted.

It took the Grands two hours to meander through the exhibition that took me 30 minutes. So I decided to meander through the much more applicable exhibition in the mall windows next door. I found lovely artifacts there, the finest specimens of brown footwear available. Don’t even get me started on the handbags!

Speaking of accessories: Gucci has died. Died. Gucci has kicked the bucket. What a sad demise it is! John Ray replaced Tom Ford and murdered the fashion house. Please, if we could have a moment of silence…

Yes, too much of her success was due to the content in her life, not the mouth used to narrate. Yes, she was over celebrated and because of this came off as a bit haughty in the end, but still I think I speak for many when I say that we’re sad to see her go.

Belle will no longer delight us with her hillarious stories. It’s odd; her blog was the first I read, the one that warmed me up to the web blog fancy-to-do. And now she’s gone, and has published a book that I’m considering reading.

I never mentioned or supported her on my blog because there was enough gala and laud without my criticism/ analysis / guffawing at such marvelous wit. But now as I watch the curtain drop I can’t help but rise and applaud.

Belle, darling, you were fabulous, even to a taste like mine unaccustomed to hints of vulgarity. And thank you, by the way, for actually updating your blog. (Yes, I’m looking at you useless write-once-every-full-moon slackers.)

Last night I painted until I realized how I despised what I was creating. I scribbled in the rest of the print and came to school 2 hours early to do another print. The edges explode, the tip of the fingerprint constricts and stands defiantly in resistance. It was very, very abstract.

Many people liked the print. Many people commented, one came up after to class to compliment, yet my eyes still narrow and my lips purse to remember what the professor said:

“Conceptually, yes, but literally, no.”

Yeah, so here’s the great thing about me: I write this entry full of fervor and determination to toil and labor and sweat myself to success, and then my play list falls upon a song that was played in Dior’s RTW Spring 2004, and it dawns on me:

OMG OMG OMG. Spring 2005 Ready to Wear has begun. OMG. OMG. Herrera. Posen. Wang. It’s out. The fabrics and the beat and the beauty have stormed the runway and I have yet to see it. I must check it out, as in right now.

OMG.

Eat me, you stupid fingerprint...

Close to 11:00 PM here, and I have about 2 ½ hours to go on my project. I haven’t glanced at my physics that’s due tomorrow at midnight, and will only complete 3 prints by tomorrow while I was aiming for 4. I’m not necessarily behind; everything, even school work, is relative and in relation to the study habits of many of my peers I’m right on top of things. I’ve felt this before, however, blogging while hours of pressing homework dangerously sits in silence behind me, looming over my shadow.

I promised myself high school is over. I am not going to continue to skim by in school now that I have academic opportunities to take advantage of (or, in my case as of late [tonight] not taking advantage of them.) I’m not paying for college; I have absolutely no right whatsoever to once again acquiesce to the luscious appeal of instant gratification, especially when I’m getting by on daddy’s wallet.

This is hard though, especially when the assignment one is struggling to devote time to has no solution, no instructions, and no direction but the very vaguest. Stupid fingerprint.

Today Elisse gave me a ride to the studio and I worked, but not really. One must take advantage of witty repartee when such a delight is presented to him or her, and who am I to turn this down when a shady spot atop green grass (increasingly rare in Utah) is offered along with it? We had a wonderful conversation (or 3) that was helpful and reassuring, I doff my hat to her. So I decided that I would pack up my things and work tonight. The rest of my classmates are probably awake with me, strained with me, and probably running out of that daft black gouache paint, too.

I wouldn’t let daddy pay my tuition junior year even if he offered. At that time I would (hopefully) be in the architectural program, which would prohibit me from working at that time. (Well, since you only spend 60 hours at the studio a week while in the program, so I suppose you could work too, but just not sleep, brush hair, or hum throughout the duration of school.) And I don’t want to work now. So I must get a scholarship.

This isn’t far fetched or fallacious. I am bright. A full ride to a decent school isn’t implausible in any sense, it’s simply a matter of work. The desire to not work will be my downfall, if I do indeed fall. But I’m not going to think about that, because it scares me into not working. ;)

Well, fingerprints don’t paint themselves, and solutions that aren’t really there can’t be found on their own, you know! I must leave you now, and I leave you with the promise that if I do indeed return during an ungodly hour in order to escape my work (I consider myself much too realistic and cynical to guarantee that this will never again be the case; I know fully well that it will be) that it will be a rare occurrence indeed. My desire to create and become spectacular is too great to let myself be sloppy. And another thing: I’m arrogant as well, so success isn’t exactly an option, but my chosen path.

Elisse, darling, you feel the same way. Let’s just do our freaking work and rock this pathetic nation.

King Louis, of the Yale I Ward in Salt Lake City, Utah. 

My new ward is much different from my old, although we moved 2 streets over and probably less than 500 feet. The houses, for the most part, are smaller and less expensive, though still quite apt to fetch a nice price for any building. As a result of this there are more large families and a couple newlyweds. One member of my ward has intrigued me, absolutely tickling me to the point of utmost delight. His name is Leonard.

But not to me, you see. To me his name deserves a title, his air and manner stand in need of trumpets and of lace and of a derby handle-silver plated cane. I will never call him Leonard. What a rubbish name! I shall call him Louis XIV. He looks just like him, he does; his long, dark hair falls in curls down the sides of his face from a straight middle part, his nose slides down his long face in the exact same manner. His lips sit dismally above his piercing chin in an expression of undeviating disdain, although occasionally the corners of his dainty mouth pull slightly as if 2 hooks had mysteriously wedged themselves between the lips and were fluidly drawing them upward into a countenance of mocking amusement and intrigue. He has the very tone and natural opulence of a king, and one king in particular: King Louis the XIV of France.

The haughtiness is in no need to be supported by the rich furs or heels of Louis, although he wears a silk vest suit without the jacket to church. He wears converse all-star shoes with the suit, which would devastate any individual dressing to pose. It’s in the way he holds his head and curly tresses, the way he stands and sits and glowers.

Today he was brought into Sunday school by an older man. Apparently our majesty is fond of missing class. In came the aged man, with a full beard and large stature, his arm through the king’s, both heads held high.

Louis was being escorted to class.

Oh, how it added to the likeness already formed in my mind! How he floated forward with his attendant at his side! How he was delivered, how he debonairly descended into the chair, how blasé his stare remained!

“Leonard does not have permission to go to the bathroom, get a drink, or to leave this classroom.” With this the bearded gentleman left the room after softly shutting the door.

Louis simply glanced up at now shut door without moving his head, waited a moment, then rose. He turned to the class, as if bidding adieu with a royal flutter of the hand, preparing to leave amidst the trumpets and the tambourines and the flourish of the majestic procession. He silently turned, smoothly opened the door effortlessly with his white hands, and departed, superciliously prancing out of the humdrum room.

How magnificent! How superlative and glorious! How flawlessly, how absolutely and completely Louis!

limewire rocks my freaking world.

It’s such a shame; every day wonderful, inspiring, wretched, funny, odd and interesting things happen to me or are witnessed by me, but my energy to write has been usurped by a new and busy schedule. After school, painting, grocery shopping, work, grouting, and physics it’s midnight and the day has flown past me and left me too weak to recount it all. Such interesting things happened today, but it would take paragraph upon paragraph and hour upon hour to narrate my day, and I haven’t the resources.

Pity. What a bleeding pity.

College is silly. Completely necessary, fun at times, a luxury, but silly all the same. No college student can deny this. I suppose that I don’t expect things that I (or my daddy) pay a lot of money for to give me a moderate amount of grief. Grief, to put it plainly, is not generally congenial.

Not that I’m unhappy, in any sense. I’m so thrilled to be so satisfied in my educational environment, I’m ecstatic and excited and anxious. It’s absolutely maddening to have 15 hours of work a week for one class. My design class is time consuming, to say the least, hence the reason I am taking a weak 10 credit hours.

Aha, Aha! Justification, darling, justification! It makes me happy! Weeeee!!!

But it does justify the credit hours. I have to have a new print, sometimes two, every time I go to class (twice a week). Prints take me anywhere from 4.5- 7 hours, depending. So I’ve spent many an hour in that abject studio of perdition.

Yawn. I’m going to bed. Bye, my darlings.

Due to the continental drift, the North American and European continents are drifting apart at an average speed of about 3.0 cm per year. At this speed, how long (in years) will it take for them to drift apart by another 1500 m (a little less than a mile)? Give answer in km.

Easy. Convert 3 cm to m (divide by 100 and therefore get 0.03) Divide 1500 by 0.03 (which gives you 50,000) right?

Wrong. I don't know how, nor do I know why, but apparently it's wrong. 50,000 yrs. at 3 cm a year gives you 1500m.

I know. The entire world has gone completely mad.

How Ricky and I communicate online:

ivory says:
you smell, yo

Rick says:
yo yo yO (begins a rap song)

ivory says:
" so I grabbed the money and my woman

ivory says:
went to mexico to hit the gringos in a drive by

ivory says:
been in the pen for 8 years runnin

ivory says:
now I'm hitting down the honkies in the fly by

ivory says:
bum bum bum bum

Rick says:
nanaaaaaaaa

ivory says:
yeah

Rick says:
then i went to lasvegas

ivory says:
eayh

ivory says:
vegas vegas baby

ivory says:
what

ivory says:
what

ivory says:
uh

Rick says:
they said me be cheatin’

ivory says:
uh

Rick says:
they said the never even herd of the 13 of diamonds

Rick says:
what kind of crack were they smoking yo

ivory says:
uh

ivory says:
uh

ivory says:
sing it, brothuh

I walk into my room after struggling with physics to find a bag of peanut butter m&ms, which I had told the bat were the best candy line on the market a day before.

The woman's quirky as cher version blonde.0, but she can be adorable.

The spoils of war (in order of time purchased):

Gap:

• 2 flutter skirts (black, khaki) Regularly 25.99 ea. Purchased for 14.99 ea
• Tropical Mango body lotion Regularly 7.99. Purchased for 5.09
  

Old Navy:

• Leather belt Purchased for 15.99
  
• Chocolate scoop neck sweater Regularly 24.99 Purchased for 10.99
  

Fossil

• Arkitekt duo face watch Regularly 65.00 Purchased for 20.00
  
• Arkitekt Alligator strap watch Regularly 85.00 Purchased for 20.00
  

Wilson's Leather

• Shirt-Collar Lamb Scuba Jacket Regularly 300.00 Purchased for 52.99
  

spent: 139.56 saved: 411.39

Quake before the master o' shopping, ye evil devils of retail! Full price will never seize me, so get thee hence, Satan! Aha! Aha! I so win!

How extraordinary to feel productive once again! What satisfaction can be found in accomplishment! I’ve decided to aim for a good school, an exquisite school. I don’t think that my efforts are truly work, nor do I find arid labor in what I am required to do. I enjoy what I do, thoroughly and sincerely.

Blunt criticism about my work doesn’t batter, bruise, or deter me nearly as much as I thought it would. It is painful to look back at five hours’ work the next day and question what you were thinking and what illicit drugs you were under the influence of at that time. It is unpleasant to find what was once a novel, brilliant idea to be simply and utterly asinine. The sting of criticism, however, is what distinguishes the ideas of an individual.

How exciting.

I allowed myself some reminiscence today, just flipping through the blog archives and what not.

Is it just me, or has my writing gotten insufferably dismal?

One thing that I’ve noticed as of late: college students, at least those attending the University of Utah, are awfully fond of marriage. Yes, they certainly do like it.

My cute physics TA? Married. The 4 people I know in ARCH 1615? Married. The kid in my ARCH 1630 class that looks like he’s 14? Married.

Oh yes, and half of the students in my institute class? Married to the other half of the students in the class.

I don’t know why it strikes me this way, it’s just odd when you ask your peer who looks and acts much younger than you where he got his brushes and he says ‘my wife got them for me’. I’m expecting an answer like Utrecht or Rules, and all of a sudden I find out he’s already walked down the ivory isle.

I must have forgotten that I’m attending school at the third largest meat market in the eastern hemisphere.

Last night at 9:45 I finally finished that wretched fingerprint after working for 4 more hours. It took a very, very long time but I’m glad I put all the effort into it; today on the board it was referred to positively and the TA stepped back and said "damn" when I showed him my work. I think I'm going to go ahead and lump that in with the positive feedback category. The professor (prof Adams) basically told us to work on the foreground, keeping in mind that blank space is part of our work, and then told us to get started. I kid you not.

“Don’t forget that when finding the solution for this problem that if you do a negative you have a problem in a problem.”

Problem? So far we’ve painted our fingerprint. The problem would be….what exactly?

“Ah. You want to know what the problem is. It’s mentioned in my syllabus through two ancient Hebrew proverbs: ‘The problem is the problem’.”

“And the second?”

“‘There is no solution. Seek it lovingly.’ You have your fingerprint, now get some work done.”

I was able to grasp what was desired when talking with the much more helpful TA. Apparently we need to view our piece abstractly, work figure/ground, activate and engage the empty space. I have an idea of what to do and I’m becoming more excited about the problem, even though I’m still clueless as to what the problem is.

I don’t know what I’m doing; I honestly haven’t the slightest bit of time to write right now. I am, however, endeavoring to preserve my sanity and passion for education, so I allow myself to write anyway. In ARCH 2630 we’re assigned to paint our fingerprint on a 30x20, which will keep me occupied until the day the pope comes out of the closet and publicly dates Mick Jagger. I’ve devoted two hours to the project and have thus far completed about an 8th of the fingerprint.

It’s due tomorrow at 9:10 am, by the way.

I’m really tired but I enjoy the work. I feel so devoted when I sit on my front porch, percolated in concentration. It’s tiring though, and I have to rip up the downstairs countertops before mum comes home at 4:30.

I allotted myself a 5 minute break, and I still have to use the bathroom, so I bid you adieu.

Blanket
By my dearest brother Ricky

The source of all heat,
A child’s best friend.
Many long hours
In the arms of a toddler.
Crying begins
When it goes to wash.
But when it is done
A glorious feeling swells inside,
In the heart of a child,
That his friend is back.

How exquisite! By brother is a poet!

“Do you ever miss being a baby?” My mother inquired of me as we drove home from Costco.

I gave a puzzled, slightly worried look in response.

“You know, those golden days in which the extent of your contribution to society was a big stretch.”

Another puzzled, slightly more worried look.

“When all you had to do was wave an arm or roll on your side and passersby would applaud your every move. That all I want. I want to wiggle my big toe and have everyone cheering. Now I have to work full time, restore a house, feed my kids. I have to take care of my mother, keep the house clean, clothe my children, pay for a mission, and almost no thanks is given me. One day I want to wiggle a bit and satisfy everyone around me. I think I would enjoy that.” She laughed a bit in her fatigue.

An understanding, though still worried look.

Humorous as this was, it woke me up in a sense. Mum does do a lot. She does come home after teaching till 4 and paint the basement. And she even feeds her kids.

One day I’m going to wake her up, and when she stirs a bit I’ll cheer for her as loud as I can.

“There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.”
Oscar Levant
(1906 - 1972)

How utterly saddened I am by the supposedly sane. It is depressing to see a mind of value and a mind of brilliance restricted by the barriers of judgment and sense that is declared to be good. How can one define good sense?

Today I was muttering to myself as I sorted my mail. I stopped, chuckled at myself, and proceeded to shuffle about after ceasing the dialect I was thoroughly enjoying before. And then I realized something. A sweet epiphany fell upon me, descending in rebellious and defiant splendor. Why had I stopped talking to myself? I wasn’t actually holding a conversation with one of my other personalities, though there doesn’t exist one doubt in my person that many do indeed exist, but I was just narrating to myself what I thought of the material before me. It was dreadfully entertaining.

So why did I stop? What is so terrible about thinking aloud? It is considered abnormal, to say the very least, and yet why is that? It’s not as if we talk to the people who surround us any more. We talk on our cell phones plenty, but not while we walk or go through with our general chores. No one seems to smile on the streets any more and pleasant greetings hardly transpire between strangers nowadays.

So why not talk to yourself?

To dwell in silence when one’s own voice could caress the wind about him or her is a pity. The only way to truly discover what thoughts scurries through one’s mind is to say them out loud and preferably in public. How absolutely nauseating it is to think that I stopped amusing myself so simply because the act isn’t one of the general public. How ashamed I am! Think of what I could have learned; think of what musings could then have been made know unto me. How unjustified was the termination of my audible contemplation!

Surely the only good sense in existence is one’s own sense of mind. Is there really such a thing as “bad” sense, or simply a different sense? No. The only sense that could be considered remotely “good” is any of the following: intuition, thought that is rational to the person thinking, and the art of being eccentric.

“Thanks for the food. I’ve got some physics to do.” I said.

“Do you feel that Dr. Peterson prepared you for physics?” My mother spontaneously asked.

“No. I did learn a lot about alcohol from his class, however.”

“Do you know what I fantasize when I get angry?” she responded. “I imagine that I kidnap the irritator and then take them to Iceland, and force them to live there.”

“You do know that Greenland’s the cold one, right?”

“Oh, it’s not about the climate. No one I know speaks Icelandic, and therefore wouldn’t be able to get a job. Peterson would have a difficult time of getting beer. The economy’s in ruins and the culture isn’t a very hospitable one.”

“You’ve seriously over thought this.”

I looked down at the tampons.

“Ricky, Some education for you.” I said, turning to my younger brother.

Ricky looked down at the tampons and ran out of the room. Yes, I make strong statements but I’m never too worried about proving my point. I kid you not, there is no exaggeration in what I am about to tell you. I hadn’t yet ranted to him about the vexing paranoia men have, I was going to do that after explaining that tampons aren’t scary.

Ricky ran out of the room, muttering “no, no”. He ran out the front door onto the porch, jumped off the 5 foot porch, and then proceeded to throw grapes at me.

So it’s just my family, then. The male gender is not to blame, the problem once again lies in the dysfunction of my family.

Whatever.

What’s with this whole “get paid for blogging” thing about? Don’t we already have enough blogs without point, passion or purpose? One would think that adding a secondary motive to writing would then dim the original motive, thus producing crap. At least I do, and I’m against this silly idea. But if it does prove lucrative for some I might start a new blog and bank in. But that would be after losing a pathetic inner struggle with my opportunistic side.

Anyways…

My first day of college was wonderful. I absolutely loved it. I ran around a lot today, trying to get my schedule worked out. I’ve upped it from 2 classes to 3, so I’m feeling less and less like a slacker. Some magical day soon I’ll be taking 4, once I go tomorrow and try to see if I can get into arch 1630 even though it is full. You know, I feel pretty full. I ate 6 cookies today, and 3 bowels of cheerios, which is 420 Cals for the cookies and about half that for the cereal.

Oh my. Oh my oh my oh my oh my oh my.

I’ve become a paranoid calorie counter.

shoot me. please.

I love being a woman. I do. At times there is nothing more empowering and fun than being a young beautiful woman. A woman can wear heels (without receiving strange looks from others), accessorize much more completely and wildly than any male can, a woman can feel the sway of her delicate, sexy walk. A woman can tilt her head up and feel her rich hair flowing down her back, a woman can be forever graceful without the interference of masculinity. A woman can pout her lips and look sexy, not disturbed. I enjoy femininity immensely.

But it’s not all perks. It’s definitely not all fun. It’s worth while, but sometimes certain things a woman has to endure can get to you, you know? The shaving, plucking, brushing, applying, moisturizing, waxing, and exfoliating can become tedious at times, but some men subject themselves to a couple of those. No. I’m not talking about that, and the women and moderately aware males present know exactly what I’m talking about:

A woman’s period.

In all actuality I shouldn’t be complaining. I never get cramps or headaches or other debilitating symptoms that plague many women. I should be grateful for my mild menstrual cycle. And usually I am, but there are times when it’s just freaking annoying. When your sitting in ARCH 1615, and you just changed your tampon, and you realize that you have a Nile river of blood about to ruin your day completely, it’s annoying to leave the class, hunt down a bathroom in the building and change your tampon once again. It’s really annoying to open your purse when someone asks for a pen and display to the world the amazing gamut of feminine hygiene products that you cart around with you. You wanna tampon? We got normal, super, and super plus. We got ones with applicators, ones without. I even carry them in pink and white. You prefer a pad? We got panty liners, winged ones, small ones, big ones, and a few that rival your chem. text book in size.

And do you think it’s fun to carry this mini flea market of sanitation around? No! It’s annoying, vexing, interrupting and at times painful.

But what annoys me the most are the men that get grossed out every time they see any personal hygiene propaganda. Like the guys who cringe every time a tampon or pad is discussed, referenced to, or sitting in a box by the toilet. What? Where else would I put the freaking box of tampons? Under a towel? In another locked box? Yes, I could put them in the cabinet outside the bathroom, but why would I? It doesn’t gross me out! Come on! How does that funny little misogynistic saying of evil go? Oh yes- BE A MAN! Get over it! Women have periods! You can’t change that! And the next time I need a tampon I’m not going to whisper it discreetly to my closest friends, as if the words could cripple civilized company if said too loudly. Nope! Not any more. The next time I need a tampon, my dear friends, I’m standing on a table and screaming out the necessity!

I was browsing the U’s homepage today and stumbled upon the “go Greek” page.

Exactly how bad is it to be a sorority whore, again?

Honest people rock. Today I left my U card, bus pass, and money in the bathroom at the field house and I found it all turned in at the front counter. Including the money. What type of diehard turns in the money? I don’t understand it, but I am thankful, all the same.

The field house is wonderful. I burnt 300 calories. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but that’s a good 40 minutes on the treadmill. Then I walked around for 2 hours in an attempt to find my text books and my classes that failed miserably and left me exhausted.

So I came home and decided to eat tortillas instead.

Yes. This entry isn’t really about anything; I just wanted something to do while I ate my tasty tortillas. And now that my tortillas have all been consumed, I’m afraid my talking to you serves no purpose whatsoever. Bubye.

I’m currently at the multimedia office in the Marriott Library. I’ve registered, received my U card (which allows me to finally ride the hideous motor vehicles of death for free, which dims my bitterness about UTA a wee bit), and I’m waiting to go accost teachers and harass them into letting me into their full classes. It’s been a very productive day.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited in my life about entering a new phase or atmosphere. I feel so much more comfortable here, I feel less annoyed as I walk along and observe my classmates. My classes excite me as opposed to insulting me; I can’t wait to get started.

Today as I was standing in line I saw a girl who I took trig with last year. She was waiting with her boyfriend. She has to go back to east for another year to get the diploma that swings in my book bag. Sucker.

I’ve decided to release fashion from my clutches while I’m a student. I have no money and soon I will have no time. I’ll wear clothing, and I’ll cover myself. That, however, will be the extent of my wardrobe during the next 4 years.

I think the professor is in his office now and ready for battle. Farwell.

Today a member of the high council came to talk to me. Even though I knew I wasn’t in trouble or anything silly like that, it still makes any Latter Day Saint nervous to get a call from a high councilman and schedule an appointment. The good news is that I’m not getting excommunicated for having a love affair with shoes. The even better news is that I’ve been asked to serve as a counselor for mutual for the handicapped. The bad news is that the bat has developed an obnoxious 150-decibel snore. But I shan’t be distracted: I’m very excited about this calling.

I will pick up a handicapped young woman and spend time with her throughout the activity every Thursday. I think it’s a great opportunity and I’m very thankful for the calling. Hopefully it will dampen my pessimism and the hopeless depression I fall into every now and then. In my mind there is none more innocent than the people I’ll be serving and I hope that I can make a difference in the lives of the girls I’ll be with. They are such sweet teachers, and I am so grateful for this opportunity.

And oh yes, the snore. A chart, if you will:

Points of Reference *measured in dBA or decibels

· 40 quiet office, library
· 50 large office
· 65 - 95 power lawn mower
· 80 manual machine, tools
· 85 handsaw
· 90 tractor
· 90 - 115 subway
· 95 electric drill
· 100 factory machinery
· 100 woodworking class
· 105 snow blower
· 110 power saw
· 110 leafblower
· 120 chain saw, hammer on nail
· 120 pneumatic drills, heavy machine
· 120 jet plane (at ramp)
· 120 ambulance siren
· 125 chain saw
· 130 jackhammer, power drill
· 130 air raid
· 130 percussion section at symphony
· 135 The sound erupting from the bat’s drooping mouth during REM
· 140 airplane taking off
· 150 jet engine taking off
· 150 artillery fire at 500 feet
· 180 rocket launching from pad

Today I gazed upon my high school diploma for the first time. It's so pretty. It's so mine. High school can kiss my pompous hand and scurry away to the dusty depths in which it dwells.

I'm going to become an architect.

Of course they pulled up then. I knew the consequences of my hesitance wouldn't be positive. I over analyzed the situation, and because of that I’m left with nothing but an unforgettable smile and a simple first name.

I believe in regrets, completely and unashamedly. Who can sincerely say that he or she doesn’t long for an outcome of one particular situation that differs from the unchangeable mount of reality? What realistic, self respecting individual can truly say that they don’t wistfully ponder life as it would be had they taken a risk? What rubbish! The possibilities that stand in passed opportunities never fail to intrigue the adventurous or the intelligent. Yes, you learn from mistakes, but does this mean that you can’t regret? Does this mean that regret is pushed aside and hidden, avoided and despised? Regret isn’t a vice; quite on the contrary it is an opportunity to question the strength of one’s determination.

I just returned from EFY. I had wonderful time, I made plenty of friends and fell hard and willfully for this boy named Kyle whom I adore. Complication has a cost, however, and because of this I have no email address, last name, natural hair color. I have his face and his first name. Sad and tragic, I know, but romantic in it’s own insignificant way.

I met a wonderful girl named Niki from Pocatello, Idaho. We talked forever and ever, and transformed the bras of our roommates into blocks of ice in a wonderful escapade of pranks. She is quite an extraordinary gal.

I’m absolutely dead, however; I’m afraid I didn’t quite make it to bed last night. I leave you to nap!

You would think that a fashion conscious lady of style such as my self would abhor any shop where the brilliance of designers is ripped off and thrown into horrid, cheap knockoffs to be displayed and made trendy by the general public.

And yet I have completely fallen in love with Payless shoe source.

The concept of being financially capable of buying more than one pair of shoes at a time is entirely foreign to me. I have always bought the best my money could buy, which was, considering my current financial situation (completely broke) the upper end shoes of a moderate store (usually $75-100, or thereabouts, unless a great deal falls on my lap, which happens quite often. This might be odd considering my current financial situation {completely broke} yet I always have money for shoes. Huh). But today I meandered into payless and couldn’t decide between a pair of shoes. After 20 minutes of looking, testing, and clunking around unevenly like a pirate with one shoe, an epiphany came to me: I could buy both.

How strange.

The battle between my mother and I ended today, and we patched up things rather well. We went shopping, and came back with a lit magnifying mirror and an adorable CD full of French café music (I actually bought my music. Completely legitimate. No Kazaa involved. Yes, yes, I thank you for your applause). I’m happy to be on good terms with the mother unit for the time being. It was awful to fight with her so intensely. I’m surprised the extensive crying on my part didn’t lead to dehydration. We’ve decided that my graduation and entrance into college requires more freedom because of the natural possibilities.

I would stay and chat, but I’m afraid mum has a wonderful little fête planned for me, and delightful French music and my new birthday shoes beckon me. Farewell!

I’ve done it! I hit the big number 3 approximately an hour and a half ago! It feels pretty good to be on the Salt Lake City runaway list for the third time running, and I think I’m aiming for 5, it sounds like a nice number. It only took me an hour this time, too. Honestly. I walked home from the passport office after mum and I got in a tiff, I arrive safely home less than an hour later, and I’m a runaway! It’s my record. Do you think I could do it in half an hour? I don’t know if I’m that good…

Yes. So I would like to officially tell all that I have just experienced the worst birthday ever. Well, it’s only 5:30, so I suppose it’s bound to get progressively worse. The good news: I was accepted into the University of Utah although I don’t yet have my high school diploma (don’t even begin to start asking me how that works out; I’m afraid I have no idea, I’m just viewing it as a wonderful mystery.) Bad news: I haven’t done anything all day but run around while simultaneously bickering with my mother and I have yet to really accomplish anything.

If a drank, this would be a night when I would go get myself sloshed and wake up half a week later in Reno, and never be bothered by this wretched day again because I would be incapable of remembering it. But I don’t, so I’ll just have to guzzle my premium orange juice and ask Maile to hook me up with some quality catnip.

Not really. What I’m really going to do is begrudgingly attend my family birthday party, act positive and happy like a good girl, and thank every deity known to man for Maile’s presence.

Bah! Birthdays are such folly!

Birthdays are malevolent because of the following bitter reasons:

· They remind one that he or she is, indeed, one year closer to his or her imminent death. For older women this is especially disturbing, but it applies to all age groups. It also reminds them of how extraordinarily little they managed to accomplish in 365 days, therefore robbing life of all point and purpose.
· It forces one to spend more time than normal with one’s family. For some this is enjoyable, but these people are simply incurably insane. Perhaps get-togethers are pleasant in some families, but mine is dysfunctional and confrontational, so there is always fighting whether or not I am a part of it or the cause of it.
· It raises one’s expectations for the day and therefore creates a breeding ground for disappointment. Birthdays are supposed to be “special”, so the daily routine will not satisfy. Because of this, one tries to organize some fancy-to-do that never goes as planned, and feeds the monstrous disappointment that cannot be escaped or avoided.
· It reminds you how many acquaintances would forget your birthday, because they do. This doesn’t really matter to most; it merely serves as yet another kick up the already sore backside.

I believe that we should abolish birthdays! Maybe I can start picketing at my party tonight, wave a banner and everything.

On the upside, however, Carter called me up while I was with the architectural chair and sang happy birthday to me. I was surprised and he really made my day until my mother succeeded in ruining it for the second time 20 minutes later. Many other people called while I was sitting with my advisor, but I was really happy to hear from Carter. He is adorable. Props to you, darling, it was quite the considerate and sweet thing to do.

I must go prepare for my party. Oh, how terrible that one should dread a party thrown in her honor!

For a while mum had this brilliant "let's buy a jaguar" idea.

We went today to look at basic toyota corollas.

vomit.

The Book of the Anti-Lowi-Acedemia-ightes

Chapter 1
composing verses 1-15 exclusive

1.In the 16th year of the reign of the judges it came to pass that there dwelt a fair maiden beyond the hills in the land of Salty Mc Salt Salt. The maiden was exceedingly fair and bright, yea, a maiden of only 10 and 6 years, yea, a searcher and a doer of all things beautiful and right.
2.But she was one of eagerness, yea, filled with the desire to rush, and it came to pass that patience was not a virtue known unto her.
3.She dwelt in the land of Salty Mc Salt Salt, however, where public education was a thing of ugliness, and of sin, and of low budget.
4.She said unto her mother “Yea, I shall leave this perdition in which I must stay, and I will wander yon over the hills to the glowing white town of UniversityofUtah. But I must first complete my journey in the smelly black pit of high school first, and labor towards a diploma of light and truth.”
5.And it came to pass that the fair maiden labored all of her days to achieve that which was desired by her and trialed and worked until sweat covered her brow, and her hands were black and scarred.
6.She journeyed to her school counselors, yea, even the evil, idolatrous Pharisees of Academics, and they said unto her: “You cannot leave this place, you must stay.
7.For behold, we find you to be lacking one half of a credit of the electives, and for this iniquitous technicality we shall bind you, and torture you in the smelly black pit until the moon has risen and fallen in all of it’s luminescent fullness 12 times.
8.And it came to pass that the fair maiden did rent her clothes.
9.But she did it in private, mind you, for she was modest and genteel.
10.And now, seeing the horror that laid before her, she did journey to the house of her mother after putting on modest, unrent clothing and did weep.
11.And she also knowing the wisdom of her gentle mother, she did ask for aid and did pray undo the mighty Lord.
12.And it came to pass that the Lord did open up the heavens, and did pour his love down upon the fair maiden in the form of a Clep test, which is native to the glowing white town of UniversityofUtah.
13.The fair maiden did take the test, and did pass with flowing colors of red and silver and a tad of pink, and she did obtain not one half of a credit of the electives, but one full credit of the electives.
14.And there was much rejoicing.
15.And the fair maiden did journey to the glowing white town of UniversityofUtah, and yea, did stay there for two years until the 19th year of the reign of the judges. And she dwelt in righteousness, and happiness for the remainder of her years.

mtv
p.o. box 2001
new york, ny 10108

Dear Sirs:

Upon turning on my television for the first time this summer I was shocked to see that your popular television program “The Real World” was not currently on the air. I have come here to spit in your face in defiance and lay my insulted body between this noble show and the figurative bulldozer that you and the rest of your corporate buffoons plan to launch upon it.

You say that there must be seasons in which certain shows do not run for the sake of production, but I find this reasoning to be skewed, unacceptable, and particularly ugly. How difficult can it honestly be to shove 7 strangers into a modern dwelling and press the “record” button on one of your video devices? How excruciatingly painful is it to take less than 6 months to do this? It is my firm belief that any quality soap dish of moderate size could perform the aforementioned task if presented with the appropriate materials, which I'm sure a rather large network such of yourself is capable of providing. If you honestly feel you cannot produce a season of “The Real World” in under half a year, then I would urge you to deliver the creative opportunity to the soap dish, which, I might add, can be found at any Bed Bath and Beyond or Linens N' Things in the bathroom accessories department.

Now that we have settled the issue of the producer, I might say something of the cast of this newly redesigned “The Real World”. I am disgusted by the young, corrupted offenses against good taste who attempt to act as civilized, refined human beings who have previously starred in your show. To see them squabbling over milk or sexual relations or whatever they choose to stupidly humor themselves with is not entertaining, nor is it conducive to a stable society. The general public, I can assure you, is in need of deep psychological discussion such as the dispute over dial-up internet connection versus the pricey, petty opulence of cable connection. I demand persons capable of such expostulation. I believe you can find such individuals in universities, in office max fan clubs, or in employment at any state DMV.

Now that I have outlined the expected results, I might indulge myself to add one more comment that is less germane to the issue at hand. I am nauseated by the fact that “The Real World” has disappeared from the channel and yet its ghastly mockery of a counterpart, Road Rules, plays on. The producers of this show should be thrashed and then impaled upon the cheap fountain pen they used to write such appalling feculence.

Sincerely Yours,
Ivory

After such a seemingly long absence from the wide world of blogging, I'd figure I would wait until my return to salt lake to write.

But I have NOTHING TO DO.

NOTHING.

If I watch another movie I'll kill myself, I've finished the books I brought with me and bought over here, I've memorized the latest articles on vogue.com, and I've caught myself eating literal pounds and pounds of fatty, bachelor food out of sheer boredom. Hence the reason I've gained 5 FREAKING POUNDS over here. Oh my!

The problem is not that daddy doesn't entertain us. Today, after completing some school work, we treated ourselves to a rather lengthy but wonderful day back home. The museum was great, and the library was fun to walk through. I love this city, but it hasn't really spoken to me like I, for some un-explained reason, thought a city would. I don't know if I'd want to live here. Well, of course I would, I've fallen in love with the city, but more in the Carter sense, seeing as I'm absolutely swept away by the city within the first 18 minutes and love and adore it until I go to another city. One day I'm bound to journey to such a spectacular city that my destiny to live within will hit me like a rather pleasant punch in the face (if there is such a thing, upon looking back I suppose there really isn't). But that's just the tiny bit of idealism in me talking, don't worry; I shall kill it momentarily.

Yes. I have fallen in love with the following music-producing people:

• zero 7- oh my. oh my. Where have you been, my sweet? Zero 7 strikes me as I imagine the depressed love child of LTJ Bukem and a more mellow Nikka Costa would. Kind of.
• Sia Furler- another musician I stumbled upon while obsessing over zero 7. Distractions is a wonderful song that makes me happy (although it's definitely not a happy song). I love her voice! Absolutely Fetching.
• The Smiths- awww.
  
• The Cult- at least one of their songs (see Painted on my heart)

I have developed an intense hatred for the following:

• English. Oh language, my diety, my beauty! Why did you go off and screw me when I decided to graduate early, eh? Was that completely necessary? This online english crap is no fun.
  
• This whole eat-too-much-and-you-get-fat concept. I'm not liking this either.
• Cable TV is corrupting the nation. The only redeeming characteristic of this putrid filth was The Real World. For some reason it went away, and left me with days upon days of Road Rules. I hate it so much...

Ah, the beautiful, beautiful lure of this city! As if I'm going to sit here and write, you scum! There is simply too much beauty to explore. I leave you now for the justified flights of fancy that stand before me. Farewell!

There I was, happily watching Sex and the City until I accidentally sat on the fated remote and stumbled upon an Alanis Morissette concert that daddy absolutely had to watch. Curses upon that woman and her homeland! Dirty Canadians...

Oh well, such is life. I can't get too attached to that show anyway, cable TV has never flowed through the house of my mother and I doubt it ever will.

You know, I've never understood the appeal many find in a concert. Yes, there is a certain degree of excitement that can't be achieved at home like it can in a noisy, dirty stadium where you sit 2 and a half miles away from the performance, but watching one on the TV makes no sense whatsoever. What deranged individual chooses to watch an angry Canadian hop around on a small stage belting song after song after song? What pointless charade has invaded my evening and prevented my entertainment? What poppycock!

We went to the Kenton County fair today and I'm afraid that I'm still a wee bit nauseous. The rides were fun, but the whole up-and-down and side-to-side feeling was only fun at the fare, and any enjoyment of the motion fled after I realized it wouldn't go away when I was standing or driving in the car back home. Not too much fun, to be sure. And then, of course, I come home to realize that Dixie the Jack Russell has consumed half of my Jamba Juice chapstic and completely shredded the cap.

I'm mad at Dixie and I'm mad at stupid Alanis Morissette. I'm also mad at the stupid petting zoo employee who wouldn't let me hold a duck. What kind of petting zoo doesn't let you touch the freaking animals? How exasperating!

Daddy and I while I'm wearing the shoes (hence the reason I'm almost taller than him in this picture) 

Aren't they beautiful? I removed the strap from one to demostrate just how versatile these beauties from Aldo really are. 

Charles Henri sat on the bench and lightly slid his tongue across the black raspberry ice cream. Black raspberry ice cream in an original cone with two extra napkins: the order he had placed at Schneider's Sweet Shoppe since it opened in 39', a little bit after he had turned 8. The old bench had been repainted since then, of course, but always the same glossy white, and Charles Henri had always remembered it chipped and peeling, as if the bench attempted to welcome and entice potential customers with its imperfections. He had sat on this bench with his father and mother until mother died in 1943, at which time he continue to sit on the bench with his father until he met Isabella. He sat with Isabella and father until pappy passed away in 1952, then it was just Isabella and his three children. Those golden days flickered in the old man's eyes; he remembered the evenings spent by the street, slurping up the home made delight of Schneider's.

His weekly ritual was different now, although he bought the same flavor and sat in the same spot. The smell of the road and the city no longer rose up gently to his nostrils, the atmosphere seemed hostile and foreign although the benches and the street that encompassed Schneider's had been altered so little. The sun shone differently now, and the heat it radiated was harsh and dangerous and refused to twinkle like it used to. His visit to Schneider's was more painful that enjoyable, yet he returned dutifully, week after week, never disappointing his old spot on the left of the second bench by the window. He knew exactly why he did it. Isabella's death wasn't going to shatter his life, though he loved her and loved her dearly. The kid's move away from the town and their distance that was unabridged by phone calls or letters wasn't going to morph him into a dysfunctional human being, unable to enjoy a nice cone of black raspberry ice cream from the best sweet shoppe in the state. He would mourn what is meant to be mourned, but he wasn't going to stop the custom he once held so close to his heart. He wouldn't stop just because it was empty and hollow and simply echoed the sweet voice of the sparkling sands of time.

So here he sat, licking his black raspberry ice cream in an original cone with two extra napkins flexed smoothly around the treat like rumpled wrapping paper. He had done this for many years, he was very good at it. It shouldn't have been hard to sit and to eat the dripping, sticky mess of a dairy product that had once brightened up his whole week. Heavens, he didn't even like this black raspberry flavor; it had gone sour after Olivia finally took that editing job in Chicago and crossed the bridge and soured over the river. But he would sit, and he would eat, because that's what he enjoyed and that's who he was: he was a man who like ice cream and a man who supported Schneider's Sweet Shoppe.

The appeal of the visit to Schneider's had dwindled and reformed. It was interesting to watch the people who came to the shoppe and the different flavors that different people got. Today two teenage girls sat on his bench, a blonde who was eating the peach and a redhead who was biting into the moose tracks. They wore jeans that they slung low on their hips, and colored, sleeveless summer blouses. They chatted about different friends and boys, but Charles Henri focused on staring at the asphalt the blurred in front of him with trucks and vans and sedans.

He had made it down to the cone and had just taken his first bite of it when the blonde girl next to him asked:

“What's your name?”

Charles Henri looked at his cone and took a second bite, wondering who the youth was talking to.

“ Hey. What's your name?” She repeated, looking straight at the old man.

“Charles Henri.” He replied.

“Cooooool. Sounds French or somethin'.”

“Yes, it is French.” He said, somewhat bashfully.

“Why are you eating ice cream all by yourself.”

He looked down at the dirty sidewalk in front of him. Why not welcome sincerity into his life? He sighed.

“Because I have no one to eat ice cream with.”

“Here,” she cheerfully said, completely unafraid. “I'll sit with you.”

She scooted up next to him and peered at the remnants of his ice cream.

“What flavor did you get?” She asked, squinting at his cone.

“ Black raspberry. I always get black raspberry.”

“You must really dig that ice cream then, huh?”

He rotated the cone in his hand and licked a small drop of deep purple liquid that had fallen onto his wrinkled hand.

“No, not really, not anymore.” The girl looked at him inquisitively, inquiring with her eyes as to why on earth did he buy the stupid ice cream if he didn't like it and there were 13 other flavors.

“ But I always get Black Raspberry.” Charles Henri looked at his cone once more and allowed his eyes to wander about the street. He noticed a young woman sitting on the bench on the other side of the door whose presence had slipped by the observant man because of the conversation he had fallen into with the peach-consuming girl. She wore black high heels with rolled up jeans and a purple shirt, and she had long brown hair that flowed down her shoulders. She didn't take her gaze off of Charles Henri; she had been observing the interaction between the girl and the old man. Her eyes held the look of stone, with just the tiniest crack in the steel facade. She was curious. This brief conversation struck her, she did not scoff at it or roll her eyes as she so often did upon examining her fellow citizens. She did originally, as was her wont, but then she peered a bit harder at the two. A faint and muted smile flashed upon her lips occasionally, as if she were trying to be rid of it. Something about the colloquy warmed her immensely and lifted her. Finally her teeth burst through the pursed lips and fell naturally into a beautiful grin. She stood up and threw her napkin away but paused before disposing of the ice cream. Another faint smile came to her face, it was the first to truly reach her eyes. She walked down the sidewalk to the bench that housed the old man and the two girls.

“If you don't like Black Raspberry it's awfully rediculous to buy it. Here, try the cookies and cream,” she muttered, handing her cone over to the old man. “I get a new flavor every time I come and this one's absolutely delicious. I might just be sticking to it for a while.” She smiled breezily and turned to go.

“ What's your name?” Asked the blonde.

The young woman opened her mouth to answer, but closed it immediately . A delicate frigidity washed over her and left her once again intensely arctic in her stare. She smugly tilted her head up and glanced at the girl. The smile didn't succeed this time, that odd moment of disorder had passed. She smirked and turned around briskly, clapping down the sidewalk in her black heels.

Charles Henri stared after the strange woman for an instant, laughed with the girl next to him and took a bite out of the cookies and cream.

“Pretty darn good.”

A red car rolled past, in the passenger's seat was the young woman. Charles Henri tipped his hat in thanks for the ice cream. The woman became still as another smile rose to her face. It failed, however, leaving the plane of her features as nippy as ever. She sighed, and turned her head, focusing her dark eyes on the mail box across the street.

I went shopping today with Cindy and inadvertently stumbled upon the perfect pair of classic pumps for which I have been searching a good solid 3 months. I asked Cindy to inform Daddy about this, so that he doesn’t miss out on the perfect birthday present opportunity (which will be needed in about 3 weeks or so), for him to miss out would be ever so sad. Cindy’s a wonderful gal, very level-headed, open minded, and just an incredibly nice person with the ability to make even the most demure feel welcome and loved. I had a great shopping trip with Cindy.

Good news: Mum thinks that Doug, our landlord, will sell to us. I am ever so happy about this; we would get it for 220 so we would have 40 or so to fix it up and make it look perfect, and then we would have a little money left over for a new car for mum (do I hear the word "Jag" caressing the breeze about me?). I am very happy about the situation, and I’m exciting by the fact that I might have that home in my mother’s name to come home to. How fetching.

We’re due at a picnic at 6 PM at the Swainheart’s, absolute dears that we’ve known forever. I think I’m going to go take a nap, it’s a shame I didn’t bring my book!

I sit before you, with Dixie the Jack Russell swirling around my feet and incredibly little to say. So far my stay here in Cincinnati has been utter bliss, yet almost completely uneventful. One must wonder why an interesting sequence of events is necessary for happiness and a sense of excitement in one's life when staying at home, yet not while traveling abroad. The change of scenery is inflammation enough; stimuli dwells within the foreign environment. Therefore I have yet to feel bored or disenchanted with my stay, but rather I am still in a frenzy about my being here. It will be very hard indeed for me to return to the drudgery of Salt Lake, and to the monotony that has buzzed inside me for the past four years. I understand that this will prevail anywhere if I let it, that Cincinnati would soon fatigue and irritate me if I stayed long enough while harboring such a mentality, but I don't think I like the idea of expending effort toward not letting myself get bored in Salt Lake. I'd rather move here and labor not to let myself get bored. All and all I think the latter idea would prove much more rewarding.

Today we lounged about until 11:00, at which time we took it upon ourselves to journey down to Covington for a nice lunch at the cock and bull pub, which was very excellent indeed. I had the chicken penne, which was delicious, but to be quite frank, not as ambrosial as one would expect from a dish with as many fat grams as I'm sure was in that one. Not only did I face this calorie-breathing beast bravely, but I solicited it by asking for a side of melted butter and garlic so that I might further adorn the platter and double the fat content. This was probably a bad move on my part, but penne must be served in a sauce creamier than olive oil and chardonnay, what can I say? Surely any level-headed pasta connoisseur would agree with me and would take a similar course of action, regardless of the heart attack that's sure to follow after about three of these meals. Usually I'm able to shrug this off and not think about it, but this inordinately fattening meal left me with an immense feeling of guilt that has yet to leave me. Today we made a recording for Rob to send to him in Switzerland, and upon viewing this I have come to the paranoid conclusion that I am the most corpulent female ever to pound about the city on the thunder thighs that are hers. Some who know me might take it upon themselves to scoff at me, but I assure you that this observation is neither stupid nor fallacious, because I simply feel obese. Too much rich food can do this to you, I truly blame European cooking for my lack of contact with reality, I do. It's absolutely laughable to think that the Italians and the French were the ones who invented Creme Brulée and Tiramisu Cheesecake and yet America is the fattest nation in the world. Just because we can't restrain ourselves and resort to stuffing ourselves to bursting in face of all the emotional retardedness that we as Americans are exposed to day by day isn't reason enough to turn us into the upholstered buffoons of the modern day world. Is mother nature completely merciless or does she merely have a painfully fiendish sense of humor?

I think I should move to Calcutta and dwell in a severe state of destitution until my unfortunate financial condition forces me into a semi-emaciated physique. I then can work to kindle all the rest of my dear little complexes into raging bon fires that ravage my life and leave me another servant of the deleterious wreck of a system that is North American society. Is one not disconsolate to realize that I am not alone in this skewed worldview? But alas! Do not fear! For my arrogance and dominating pomposity restrain me from acting on my dislike of my healthy body, or even from allowing my mind to dwell on the issue for a moment too long. And yet my dislike of my relatively healthy body restrains me from letting my conceit overpower me and destroy my life. It is a beautiful cycle of flaws that gyrates and spins closer and closer to overall balance than many other seemingly "healthy" aspects of life.

I believe therein that cycle lies the key to the success of the American nation. We, the people of the babbling, conceited, completely oblivious and biased, are a major power in the world not because we're healthy and level-headed. Good heavens no! It's because we have so many complexes, phobias, obsessions, fixations, and neuroses that they all each individually make the others less daunting and therefore less threatening. This balance of infirmities leads to an arrogance that doesn't cripple because it doesn't exist to hide or cover the infirmities, but simply exists to coincide with the infirmities in a beautifully askant symbiotic relationship. This beautifully askant symbiotic relationship exists because it, in and of itself, makes no sense whatsoever, and therefore holds a secure place in the American psyche. We are a powerful people because we are completely and utterly insane. Absurdity is a necessary attribute of the well rounded individual; it builds character.  

Tomorrow I have to wake up at 7:45 for church, and right now it is 12:09. I have no idea why I'm wasting my time stating that Americans are insane, it's much like writing a dissertation about grass being green or mosquitoes being repulsive; it is a common fact that is well known and widely accepted. I leave you all on that note and beg that this has changed your view of us Americans. We're really not that bad, we're just unhinged, and quite content about the unhingement, if that is indeed a word. Farewell. 

You open the front door to see a charming wrought-iron fence sitting beside a cobblestone street. Grass pokes up between the brick sidewalk which groans beneath the thousands walking upon it. The bricks actually dip in the center of the walkway, curving down the well-trodden path. I find it interesting that the relatively busy street neither threatens or intimidates me, but charms me with the roar of the varied cars as they rush on by. Grass that is long but just barely short enough to please the eyes nestles around the trees that relax complacently by the streets and the houses. This, the town of  stamped bricks and exquisite Queen Anns that sweep up to the sky, their widow walks and turrets grasping gracefully the blue above them. This, the town of the 32-room Book Loft, covered wall to wall and floor to ceiling with a voluminous assortment of every type of book, with hundreds of small, worn arrows stuck to the thread-bare carpet, directing the attentive shopper to the nooks and quoins holding the sought-after treasure of the shop. This, the town of the prince in his 150-year-old mansion and the pauper in his small yet charming loft in the back alleys. This, the town of the old. This, the town of the new. This, the town of German Village in Columbus, Ohio. 

How I adore this place. How happily the houses wink back at me and how gentle the sun falls upon me. The climate here is moderate. Oh blessed moderation!

I'm enjoying myself thoroughly. Yesterday we drove to Columbus and stayed the night at Cindy's house, my dad's lady friend. She forgot the bag that she needed for work in the morning at my dad's house, so we drove to German Village for a bite at the local starbucks and a nap in her cute apartment. Basically, it's Seattle, but you don't have to pay to breathe.

A couple times I've encountered a few things here and there that have reminded me of Carter, but on the whole I don't think I get attached like mum does. She keeps telling me: “Give yourself 3 weeks, it always takes a while for the change to settle in. Of course you're not crying now, but you just broke up with him. It'll come soon enough.” Well, I'm still waiting for the water works, just for the record. I always knew mum and I had our differences emotionally, but I really don't think I get attached. Or I don't let myself. Or I do and am pretending so well that I've actually convinced myself otherwise. Either way I'm not crying. There will be first loves, second loves, third loves, and fourth loves. My love life has just begun, I'm not going to mourn it for what it is: a compilation of many acquaintances (not necessarily many, but more than one for that matter.)

Elisse and I switched phones so that I don't have to writhe under the burden of evil, evil roaming rates. You know that commercial where the man drops his phone in the bear pit at the zoo ( I think it's a bear) and he jumps in because he's afraid the bear will make a roaming phone call? Yeah. They're not over exaggerating. Anything smaller than a great white is going to have to fight me to make a roaming call on my celly, it's like 70 freaking cents a minute. I'm not down with that. Not down with that at all.

I also did end up going to that cocktail party on Wednesday, and I had an absolute ball. Fish (or phish, however the obscure nickname is spelled) throws delightful parties. Everyone was dressed up, or at least you would know they tried if you knew the person. Glen Miller strummed gently in the background (at least for the last part of the party; earlier on they were playing some dreadful violation against good taste that I have completely blocked out of remembrance) and we sat on a pleasant evening, talking about everything from Ella to dyeing underage girls green in, what appeared to me to be an insensitive one, myself being underage and all, an attempt to avoid the whole statutory rape issue (All in all I was against the idea, for obvious reasons). I've decided I approve of Fish on some levels, which is crucial, because he wants to date Elisse. I haven't given her final approval yet, though, something of this nature must be thought out.

I believe it is 12:26 Cinci time, so I must leave you now and slumber in my daddy's semi-musty basement. Adieu! 
 

I am no longer held captive by the snarling beast that is the Old Spaghetti Factory. Tomorrow is, indeed, my last day and I’m getting it picked up. Yay! I have escaped with both my sanity and all four limbs. I have managed the impossible.

Right now it’s too dreadfully hot to do anything that requires thought process or excessive movement of the body, unless it is between 10 am to 6pm, during which it is too hot to do anything at all. I’m going to go run errands with Elisse, which is okay because her air conditioning works (I hope).

She invited me to an old-fashioned cocktail party tonight, and my attendance is still uncertain. I don’t know if I want to go. Dressing up would be fun, but these things tend to be boring. I’m going rock climbing at 7 with the ward, though, and that I am excited about. Jon might be there, I really hope he comes. I’m still head-over-heels in love with that boy, he is ever so adorable.

I am single again. Oh, the sweet, sweet ring of words symbolizing freedom. How fabulous!

Mystique of Sunlight
By R.S. Ivory

I remember, rather fervently, lying awake in bed one morning when all of a sudden I was seized by the deepest, darkest despair ever to touch my soul. The snow fell lightly outside my window, lazily drifting down to join the sea of white that had covered our city the previous night. Upon the wings of coldest purity had Change soared into view, the bitter wind and the blade-sharp cold trumpeting its grandiose arrival. The sky above remained blank, as if not wishing to detract from the glory of the first snow of the season. All around me it fell, not stopping, not pausing; just diving towards the ground. It seemed strange to me that change would be so monotonous, but it was, at least for that day.

I didn’t want to leave my bed that morning. The stark opposite of anything pleasant smirked at me through my window, encouraging me to stay in my warm, friendly bed. My bed was a miracle to me; wherever I dared to move or stretch or extend within its confinement I was greeted with the gentlest caress of the sheets on my bare legs. Outside you may be as free as a bird, but you’ll rarely find the comfort or the love that can be found in one’s bed.

Once again I turned my gaze to the window. Two single-hung casements, positioned side by side, with charming oak trim painted an ancient white stared back at me. I adored my window. There was something about the compilation of glass panes and wood that meant an incredible amount to me. I found this strange, my inability to identify exactly what it was troubled me. What was so endearing about this thing, this aspect of my somewhat featureless room, what characteristic bound this white-encased portal to me?

It was early, and the darkness of the morn continued to envelop me. I continued to ponder about the conundrum the stood before me. My eyes trailed along the wood, searching for the component that engendered the veneration that billowed and swelled inside me. This was a puzzle, and the answer was next to me, silently waiting to be discovered, breathing slowly and evenly like a child lost deep in a reverie. Could it be the morphed reflections of my face in the hand-blown glass, or the image of the fresh greenery that danced through the window?

It was at this moment that the sun rose. The rise of the sun is steady; evenly the star creeps up the sky till it blazingly reaches the climax of its cycle. The sunlight burst through my window. It poured into the room, filling every portion, every crevasse, every inch of the room. It was complete, yet gentle. The change the room experienced was phenomenal, yet not startling or disturbing. I remained in my bed, curiously observing the light as it rapidly climbed up the walls and crept farther along the floors. It reached my bed, and swathed my body in brilliant light. The sunlight dripped onto my bodice, warming me and filling me. The room was transformed.

It was such a simple metamorphosis. The transmutation of the appearance of my room immediately spurred a change in my mentality. The unexplained gloom that had dwelt within me earlier that morning had melted at the sight of such luminous radiance, and yet the transformation was so simple and uncomplicated. The addition of natural light to my room had robbed the area of all seemingly infinite doubt. The landscape that dwelt on the other side of my window no longer smirked at me, but beckoned me.

I stood up and stretched. Fumbling around my closet, the ancient plaid scarf that I had acquired years ago was found and wrapped several times around my neck. I opened the door and exited the room.

Carter just texted me:

“Hi….”

He said he didn’t want to be friends. This is going to be difficult for me. If we’re to break this off, then I really don’t think any type of contact will be conducive to an effective break up.

I don’t know what to do…

Wow. I have seen so many bad movies in the past week and I’m still craving a semi-decent one. After seeing

• Le Divorce
• Something’s got to give
• Along came Polly

I’ve decided that this “movie industry” thingie has had a good run, but it’s time to put ‘er down. Really, the gal has her good days but really she’s going through so much pain. We need to put the poor thing out of her misery and move on. Really.

Speaking of moving on, I broke up with Carter. It’s sad, but necessary. It was just getting too serious, we were getting too close. He’s a sweet guy, he’s just not what I want right now. I don’t want attachment, I don’t want a serious relationship. And the whole commitment part just scared me stiff like a Frenchie swimming in the strait of Dover, what can I say?

It’s not that easy, though. I realize that I am in a jovial mood after watching the nonsensical poppycock that was “Along came Polly”, but I am sad about this. The fact remains that Carter made me happy. Being around him was the funniest, happiest thing I’ve experienced in a long time. I don’t want commitment and I don’t want the emotion of a relationship like the one him and I shared, however fun it was at times. I’m going to Cincinnati and then I’m starting college, and I would truly like to start completely over, with a clean slate. I think this break up was better sooner than later; what must be done must be done.

Tomorrow I pack for Cincinnati; I depart on Thursday at 10:00 in the morning. I am so excited to see Daddy and Cindy.

This writing is just terrible. Wretched stuff, it is, one can tell that I haven’t been writing as often as I should as of late. Oh well. At least I’m posting rubbish, as opposed to posting nothing at all.

Sylvia Plath - Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

I am such a fool. My beliefs are not meant to be molded and expressed by the frail, flawed language of mortals. True expression is not to be released, nor to be published, nor to be formed in any place other than in one’s own mind. Definition cannot be found in any place other than the hallowed depths of my being; purpose can only be discovered when a thorough search is conducted away from this world, and away from our silly, petty fears that are so important to us and can dominate so much of our lives. I hate being sincere. It is so futile while upon this world. To truly be frank with myself out loud is ridiculous.

I’ve decided I don’t ever want to publish. I’ve questioned the motives behind my doing so and I’ve discovered that they are completely aesthetic. Not for the fame or money or anything silly like that; I’m too lazy and worried to care about anything as completely stupid as that. I would publish to finally be able to hold, in my physical hand, the security of knowing and being able to articulate my beliefs. I have realized, however, that my beliefs should not be articulated. What folly that would be! Upon that day I would hold in my hand not what I believe, but the theory held by mankind for centuries that would bear strongest resemblance to my beliefs. This theory, or belief, or manmade conclusion, whatever it may be, is so dissimilar to what I truly live for. Why would I discuss this? What does this have to do with anyone but myself?

I will not find happiness in an audacious parade of events and details that have been circumspectly arranged by an ignorant hand that demands to know the things that are not meant to be known. It’s quite simple: all I have to do is live what I know. I have nothing else to do, so why would I do anything else? I need to stop dancing around this and attempting to find a middle ground in which I can have pleasure and serenity. One could say that these two things are synonyms, but no, my dearest, they are opposites indeed.

Argh. I leave for Cinci in 5 days. Oh blessed release!

Today I took mum out for an absolutely lovely dinner at L’Avenue. I had a splendid time, savoring the red snapper and Crème Brulée. The service was wretched, but the atmosphere was charming and the food was positively succulent. I then watched “Somethings got to give”, and have landed at the intelligent conclusion that Jack Nicholson is the perfect dirty old letch, while Diane Keaten is an idiot who, for some bizarre, unknown reason, comes off as witty to most.

This is, roughly, the hair I want. 

My brother and his friend, cabbage eater (I assume he has a real name, I'm not quite sure) are reading this over my shoulder, so I thought I'd drop by and say something nice about them.

Ricky has big ears.
And Cabbage Eater eats cabbage. Huzzah.

My other wall, with my dear stuffed dog Paul. Hi Paul! 

Muslin Curtains covering my "closet". 

Presenting my new room! We put a beautiful cool dip color on the walls with a linen texture. The floor is a dark cherry hardwood. 

“In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help from both sides of the veil and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike- and the will—you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. (see 2 Kgs. 6:16-17) They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham’s seed”

-Jeffrey R. Holland,
“For Times of Trouble,” New Era, Oct.1980, 15

Conversation around the breakfast table, Part II

Today mum, Ricky and I were talking in the dining room. We discussed new cars and my newly painted room, which, by the way, looks perfectly fetching. As we lounged, the bat walked past and opened the front door.

“I’m going outside with my orange to meditate about the eternal nature of the gospel. I’ll be back in 15 minutes”

She closes the door, leaving my mother and I quizzically looking at each other just to confirm what had been said. Mum’s lips break into a smile, as do I. 20 seconds later the front door opens to return the bat.

“I forgot my J. Crew catalog.”

Is there any hope for me? Is it physically possible that I will lead a relatively sane adult life or are the genetics too strong to allow this? I’m amazed I’m capable of coherent thought at the present…

Conversation around the breakfast table, Part I

Mom: “Mom, why do you have Rachael’s purse?”
Bat: “She let me borrow it because I’ve lost all my purses”. (They’re definitely NOT in my closet, believe you me…)
Mom: “Well, that explains a lot. I saw the purse in your room so I peaked inside and was confused when I saw all of your stuff inside. Where did you get that mascara? It works like a dream.”

Remind me as to why I ever felt privacy existed in this house….

I’ve just returned from an absolutely splendid night with Carter. Our evening commenced with a meal from Flemings, which was fabulous. I had the Australian Lamb and Carter had the rib eye, and the majority of the time we spent in the restaurant was spent in silence, Carter and I leaning back and gently salivating over the tasty meat. The atmosphere was exquisite, although the server was obsequious. I most definitely plan to return.

We then went to the mountainside to watch the fireworks. We dozed under the sky while lying under a blanket. He took me home, kissed me, told me I was beautiful, and invited me to a family party tomorrow. I like that boy.

Anyways- I received my ACT scores today. I scored a 28, which, though far from impressive, is good when remembering that I didn’t study a word and was running extremely low on sleep the day that I took it. I’m not excusing anything, though; I’m happy and proud of my 28.

I don’t think I’ll go to bed yet, but I’m certainly not going to write anymore. My keyboard is a piece of crap and keeps holding down the control key, which, as any semi-sane person can imagine, is annoying. Farewell.

It has seemed like the longest time since I've sat in front of this enticingly black screen. How I've missed you, my dearest, and how I've mourned your absence! This, my method, my child, I adore you and I've missed you dearly. It turns out my echo means more to me than I though it did.

I just got back from Spiderman II with Carter. The movie was good, or at least it was produced in the comic-like form that becomes our crime-fighting arachnid ever so well. I despise the actor who plays Spiderman almost as much as I loathe Kirsten Dunst (shudder), but overall it was good. Carter enjoyed the film much more than I did, bouncing around in his seat with glee upon witnessing the fulfillment of the comic book narrative. I think I'm in love with the boy. I found dependability in a 18 yr. old construction worker/romantic/prep school graduate and my discovery scares me quite a bit. I enjoy being with him ever so much! He makes me happy!!!!

Elisse is in Washington D.C. at debate camp. Apparently she passed up Stanford to go to this allegedly prestigious camp and found out it was crap upon arrival. Every time she calls I pick up the phone to hear disappointed whimpers and homesick groans from the other end. Poor baby. She has 11 days left till she arrives back in S.L.C and she can’t stand it there. At the same time it’s funny; she’s lodging in one of the most fascinating cities in the world and she can’t explore it because she has to attend a lecture explaining what a counter plan is. Poor girl.

My nonattendance, by the way, is not the fault of my laziness or my inability, I just want you to know. I’ve been traveling; last week it was Seattle (BEST CITY EVER!) and this week it was girls camp (WORST SLEEPING ACCOMODATIONS EVER!). This upcoming week I’m a.) painting my room the most adorable pastel-mint color and b.) working on Driver’s ed and the rest of my course classes. The week following will mark the beginning of my beautiful respite in Cincinnati which will last throughout the rest of July and the beginning of August. Exciting.

I’m tired, and I have to go brush my teeth. Tomorrow Carter is taking me to Flemings, and I pine with anticipation. Huzzah!!!