Our computer has died. Just died. We do have two fully functioning computers, but Rob's alienware has a virus that prevents it from being useful. Daddy sent me a copy of Knoppix, which is the coolest thing in the world. Linux rocks my world.

While viewing the comp's files from knoppix, I stumbled upon some ancient documents Carter wrote at my house a couple months ago. Really, I'm embarrassed; the writing is sloppy, broken, overly passionate and maudlin, and overall juvanile. What can I say? The writing is just like the author in so many ways.

On Saturday I met this adorable guy named Rob. He's adorable, polite, charming, incredibly hot, and an extremely good kisser. I must say that I'm quite flustered by it all; I like him so. When I juxtapose him with Carter I laugh, to be completely honest. He has this jet black hair, and this smile that just melts me into this amorous little puddle of adoration. He's cute in many ways, and I like him quite a bit. I suppose that's why this entire affair is so absolutely tortuous.
Oh my. I suppose a life deficient of romantic entanglements would be an easier one, but I'm afraid I'll never learn...

I suppose I should explain why I can’t help but refer to Larry as Larry bear in my head. I knew a Larry back in Cinci, he was an adorable friend who happened to look like a bear, and the endearing term was born. 5 years later I’m in college, and the TA is a Larry who looks exactly like a bear. He has a short haircut, has that teddy bear kind of build, and just looks like a bear. In a good way, I suppose. I kid you not, it’s somewhat uncanny. But there you have it, Larry bear.

CHRISTMAS IS COMING! HUZZAH!!!! I’m ever so excited. It snowed today, and although I was forced into misery by the inclement weather, the fluttering frost reminded me of what was to come as it drifted down onto my head, soaking me. I’m exited for the Christmas songs and the decorations, and most of all the tree. We ordered a new 7.5 foot artificial pre-lit tree off eBay, and the delay of its arrival drives me mad. True, we won’t set it up until Thanksgiving night, but I’m still so thrilled. The magical season approaches and brings a smile to myself and makes me giddy.

All in all I had a great day today. I managed my time wisely and accomplished a lot. I didn’t finish all my studio work but made great head way. I hope tomorrow’s crit treats me well!

Talked to Maile today at Church.

Apparently the Aussie is an incredible kisser.

Yesterday I went to a Haunted house with Maile & Co. and the Aussie. It was hilarious; I’m absolutely terrified the whole way through and at points I’m in tears. It’s awesome.

It’s curious; every time I go to this haunted house something odd but comical happens to me. Last year, as I was being chased by zombies, rotting faces and all, I slipped and whacked one in the crotch with my heavy purse. He doubled over, laughing, and told me to be considerate of the poor zombies. This year, about 3 minutes into the haunted house, an actor dressed as jack the ripper jumped out of a compartment and I promptly fell through the wall behind me. As the crew was putting the set back together, I laughed and rub my throbbing thigh, pondering exactly how I would ever make it through the set without incident. I ran into many people, jumped into the arms of bemused strangers, and trampled many a foot in my attempt to flee the monsters.

We went to Rocky Point, by far the best in the state (hence the reason the institution won ‘best in state’ award), and the haunted house was extremely well put together. It was freaky and loads of fun. I also went with a hot Australian boy, which would have been a lot more fun if Maile hadn’t been literally throwing herself at him the entire time (literally, read: lunging at him and diving under his shirt every time she was startled.) He’s leaving in a week, she has a boyfriend, why can’t she ever be content with just being friends with a guy? I’m fine with the fact that she enjoys the company of many, many men, but at times I’m embarrassed for her and myself because of her bluntly brazen antics. I acknowledge that he’s hot, has an adorable accent, and is fun to be around, but he is leaving soon. A purely platonic relationship would probably carry on longer and be more beneficial to the times he comes back to Salt Lake. That is why I decided not to make a move, but he does have two legs and is a male, therefore Maile decided that hitting on him ceaselessly whenever in his presence was the best method for her. She made it a tad bit awkward as we moved through the haunted house, simply because it was odd to walk through with them due to the fact that Maile was mauling him the whole way. So I spent most of the time with Lehua and Xan, which was cool, but vexing that I couldn't be with the friends I know the best.

Afterwards we all hung out, even though Maile was still trying to harass him (or whatever the obnoxious ritual she calls flirting really is). We had a pillow fight, he and I talked, and we just had fun. (Apparently I’m quite a laugh, and he’ll have to give me a bell. Translation: I’m funny and he’ll have to call me sometime this week)

I had a lot of fun last night, but only after I came home did I realize that I had missed the deadline for my Saturday Physics homework, which was maddening. To the depths of the sea with schoolwork! I want to go get a costume, paint my face, and participate in Halloween activities for the rest of the week.

Bah!

So… The fugees reunited on stage a month ago and rumors are flying about another album.

*blink*

That would be so bleeding awesome.

Faint light of dawn
I’m listening to you breathing in and breathing out
needing nothing
You are honey dipped
You are beautiful, floating clouds, soft world,
I can’t feel my lips

I’m going down, I don’t want to change
I’m going down, going down this drain

Don’t bring me down, I beg you,
Don’t bring me down, I won’t let you

(Sia Furler, Don’t Bring me Down)

Yesterday before I went to baby-sit for Jen I went shopping and picked up some liquid black eye liner along with a curling iron. The eye liner is somewhat extreme, but I gave my self 10 minutes to apply it right before mum came home and it looked magnificent.

I perfected my makeup just as mum came through the door and announced that she felt like something fun.

We decided to go see “the notebook.”

It’s a rare occasion for mum and me to go out to a show in general, and on a weekday it’s absurd to think about it. But after both of us looked back at our days we indulged ourselves and went to the movie.

“Oh, it’s splendid!” Mum exclaimed as we neared the theater. “I never see movies twice (isn’t that the truth) but this one is wonderful. It’s the chickest flick on the market.”

Awesome. A good chick flick is really nice every now and then. But, I reminded myself as I looked at my flawlessly dolled up face in the mirror, I mustn’t cry and wash down the masterpiece my face had become.

Well, almost. I was rather close. I made it through the movie up until the part where Noah and Allie get up and dance to “I’ll Be Seeing You” In the nursing home. I started sobbing hysterically, spilling my chewy sweet tarts all over the people in front of me.

“S-s-s-ooor-ry!” I choked out.

The couple turned around. The girl, whose face was covered in tears and mascara, totally understood. The man looked around him as if he’d missed a bombing or some other life-claiming national tragedy of the sort.

My makeup, surprisingly, held up pretty well (sort of). After the movie mum and I went to grab some new lipgloss at shopko, and there I stumbled upon the black eye liner I had bought the day before.

I thought of Noah. I thought of Allie and Noah dancing and fighting and kissing, and being separated for 14 years. I thought of the scene in “Hanging Up” where the parents are dancing to their song, I thought of Noah reading to Allie, I thought of the scene in “Patch Adams” where the wrinkled woman dives into the pool of spaghetti. I thought of the man I want to marry and the slim chances I feel I will ever find someone like that. I thought of the drenched black mess my face probably was at that instant.

I started to sob in the middle of the isle, collapsing on mum and crying.

Ah, c'est la vie!

ME: “Hello?”
AMY: “Hey! What are you doing?”
ME: “An obscene amount of nothing. You?”
AMY: “Me and the girls are going mormon streaking. Wanna come?”

*silence*

*more silence*
ME: “In the name of heaven and all that is holy, what is that?”
AMY: “Streaking, you know, except you’re, like, not completely commando.”
ME: “Thanks for the invite, but I think I’ll kip out of this one, if you don’t mind.”
AMY: “No, that’s fine, I’ll call you tomorrow. See ya.”
ME: “Bye babe.”

Just a few clarifications for my dearest readers:

• The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints does not condone immodesty or nudity in any form. I realize everything’s relative, but we’re pretty strict here, so I think it’s safe to say that we, as a people, are moderate in dress. I also realize that some Mormons go streaking, (see above) but this is a personal choice propelled by boredom.
• 
  This so called “mormon streaking” is rather silly. Isn’t the whole point of streaking being in the nude? This isn’t streaking, but rather a fatigued imitator of the (in my mind pointless and immature) institution of streaking. So doesn’t wearing underwear defeat the purpose?
• 
  I would also like to encourage those of you who live in the salt lake country to restrict your activities tonight to the indoors, preferably the basement, where view of the outside is limited.
• 
  I would also like to inform you that I have a sore throat- kind of. The left side of my throat is raw and throbbing while the other side is just fine. I am confused.
• 
  Today I got bored and snipped away at my hair a bit. Tomorrow I plan to see a stylist to repair the damage done to my head.
  
  That is all.

Worked on my final until 3:30 yesterday night, or should I say this morning.

Bah.

I’m feeling such a plethora of doubts and questions and misgivings as of late; they beat upon me and to tell the truth, I’m rather frightened. The things that I want to do and the places I wish to go demand individuals from the top, and I’m afraid my incapability will keep me from the top, and therefore prevent me from the things I want to do.

It’s not confusing, in fact it’s quite simple; physics is trying to eat me. The sciences want me dead and disappointed, who am I to defy them? I work and I work and it doesn’t come to me. Bah.

Process design, however, is going well; I actually got a good critique. Yesterday as I was working, or pretending to work while talking with the ever adorable Nick, he asked me what I planned to do.

“I intend to force an epiphany.” I said matter-of-factly.

And force an epiphany I did.

I sat down to work, decided to do something different, and summoned up something beautiful that worked in many ways. But I shan’t jinx it; I refuse to speak anymore about it. So be gone, you evil-bringing viewers! Away!

Mum, Jeff, the bat and I went shopping yesterday in park city. The outlets there are simply amazing; anything can be found for a fraction of the original price. One thing mum found was a book called “The Literary Book of Answers”, in which phrases or parts of sentences from famous literature are placed on each page to create a magic 8 ball concept. You ask a question, open the book to a random page and read. When we first bought it the bat insisted on asking the first question:

“How far is it from here to the southern border of Vietnam?”

Puzzled expressions graced our faces. Even for the bat, the question was completely random and odd. Mum flipped open to a page that read:

“ABSOLUTELY”
-Anton Chekhov: “Uncle Vanya”

So most of the time it doesn’t make sense, it’s just fun to do. Today mum and I played the game.

Mum: Is Rachael’s future husband in her life right now?

I flipped open to:

“YES”
-Hans Christian Andersen: “In a Thousand Years”

It was surprisingly logical and straight forward. Huh.

Mum: “Who is he?”

The next random page read:

“TRY TO BE HAPPY WITHOUT IT”
Charles Perrault: Complete Fairy Tales
“Beauty and the Beast”

Yesterday I informed mum that for Christmas I would like an ipod and exceptionally loud headphones so that I would never have to listen to my family ever again.

For some reason she declined.

 

I love high fashion... 

Yesterday, in the event of a party I was planning to attend with Maile, I actually put on makeup and did my hair (did my hair= brush thoroughly). After waiting for Maile I discovered that she had been caught in her attempt to sneak out and therefore I had no place to go in my new found sexiness.

So I crashed on my couch with my makeup still on.

This afternoon, as I was walking to the studio, I was happy to see that my makeup was still intact and that I looked extremely pretty, and was dressed well in heels and a matching J Jill sweater that hung loosely on my frame, making me look wonderfully thinner than usual. Very Ralph Lauren Ready to Wear Spring 2005.

The walk from the bus stop to the studio is a nice one. I love stalking down a sidewalk in heels, swaying just so, tossing my hair back occasionally. I smile to my self as I see a beautiful man exit the pioneer memorial theatre. The beautiful man turns his head and slides into eye contact with me.

I smile flirtatiously before proceeding to trip and face plant into the sidewalk.

It was a very curious fall, ambiguous in the sense that the cause of it was and is still hidden from me at this very moment; there was nothing in my way nor were the ivory Chinese Laundry pumps that I had found at market square for $11 the day before hard to walk in. I was simply walking one moment and flying in the air with a downward acceleration the next. Curious, to say the least.

“Are you alright?” The man exclaimed as he rushed up to me.

“It’s alright, you can laugh.” said I, observing his admirable constraint. “I’m just fine.”

“Be careful in those shoes” he said kindly, and with that he nodded and walked off, leaving me completely amused and humiliated.

Of course he blames the shoes; I suppose any untrained eye would. But upon close investigation of the footwear one can clearly see that they wouldn’t be the motive behind an unwanted descent of any kind. They have double straps, relatively low stiletto heels of moderate thickness, and an insanely pointy toe. They walk beautifully, easily. It wasn’t the shoes.

I myself blame the silly magazine I was holding at the time I plummeted, which threw off my equilibrium before getting in the way of my attempt to catch myself on the parking meter to my left. Clearly the magazine is responsible.

I continue my journey to the studio, a bit less confident than before. A smile kept on sporadically fluttering upon my lips as I thought of exactly what disturbed expression my face had been contorted into as I plunged to the cement below. Finally the grin pushed through my being and I started chuckling madly as I endeavored to walk. I accepted defeat and stopped walking to stand and laugh avidly. I decided it was best that I had stopped walking as another cute guy strolled past and grinned at the amused beauty giggling in the middle of the promenade; I don’t walk and examine men simultaneously too incredibly well.

I finally made it to the studio and began working. I made a breakthrough today on my project, and I think that the idea I summoned up there is going to work rather well. I was working hard and productively until yet another appealing male crossed my path to mess me up in one way or another.

“Hello.” He said. I smiled and gave a weak ‘hello’ in response.

“Are you in design workshop?” He inquired. He looked of semi-distant Asian descent, with jet-black hair, hazel eyes and beautiful white, straight teeth. I love dark hair.

“Uh, yeah, I have the other period. You have Professor Davis, right?” I stuttered. Bullocks, I can never be smooth when I’m caught of guard.

“Yeah. What are you guys working on?” He walked up to my desk to inspect my desk (or the contents therein, I’m still debating this).

“Folding paper, investigating positive negative space, figure ground, you know.”

“Sounds enjoyable.” He uttered.

“Do you want to tell me what you think of this study? This plane right here, it’s necessary but I’m afraid, um, it’s completely dead and inactivated. What, what do you think?” I asked.

He examined my study for a long time, walking around me, peering into it and around it, just looking at it.

“I hate the pause when someone looks at your work,” I laughed. “It’s painful.” He looked up and smiled.

“I like what you’ve done. I’m not sure what to say, though.”

“I know what you mean. I think the piece is active and intriguing, but from this one angle,” I paced over until I was facing the problematic side dead on, “It looks like nothing, just empty space.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.” He said. He studied my work for 3 or 4 minutes longer until. We talked about his work and about class. 10 minutes later I began to start my second study of the day until I glanced at my sketch book. In it I had written my measurements, and I caught the phrase “Top to first incision: 1 and 27/32 inches”. I really didn’t want to work anymore. So I packed up and started to walk out of the room.

“You’re going home?”he asked.

“Yes- my work ethic is dismal if indeed existent.”

“Well, at least you came. See you later.”

I walked home, frustrated with myself. Luckily my journey was completely void of beautiful men, though I doubt I would have noticed, as I was lost in deliberation. The day was frustrating, frustrating indeed.

Well, I suppose men are in general.

you go, brother! 

Today I babysat for Jen, an absolutely wonderful gal from my old ward. Her kids are sweet and a breeze to babysit. They’re extremely easy to manage; my time there consists of playing outside a beautiful, expensive house in their pristine, manicured backyard and playing with the kids. Easy.

While I was there I opened the fridge for a bite or two and discovered some grapes. The box read “Four Star Fruits”. This intrigued me to no end. Naturally, 5 stars is the ideal star allowance that one would crave from produce. A 5 rating is supreme, the best, the absolute and almighty. 4 is good, satisfying, and certainly better than 3 stars but is simply not superlative. How odd to bestow one’s own product with a mere 4 stars.

I opened the box and tasted one.

Lo and behold, it was a four star grape. I was delighted with the sweet, refreshing taste, but elation did not flood my mouth and entire being. It was good, but not the best. Indeed, it was a four star grape.

Never before has a food product, be it produce or otherwise, been so honest with me. I was flattered. Hallowed be the name of this courageous farmer/corporation, let us shower him/her with laud for having the balls to deliver what is promised. I was so happy to know the quality of the fruit with exactness, to the very star.

Blessed, blessed farmer…

Yesterday was a very trying day for me. As I was salivating over my boots on ebay, mum came up to me with a very tempting offer.

“Help out with the paper route for a year and the boots are yours”, she says.

My jaw drops. I despise the paper route; it’s a rip off, it’s menial work and you get all dirty from the ink. It’s stupid.

But the boots! The boots! Look at the boots! They’re beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. They got the best of me.

“Deal.”

We didn’t win the auction, which I think was a good thing. I helped out with the paper route for today and remembered how I loathed it. But I am bootless.

Oh yes, and by the way, a question: does any random soul know what music is playing as Dior's women's fashion site loads? (dior. com, then click on 'women') It's really got an awesome beat so I was wondering if anybody knew the artist/title of song if it is indeed taken from a full song. I’ve been posting this on every fashion forum like mad, seeing as Dior’s RTW is coming up and will therefore change the site (and the wickedly awesome music) If you have an idea, please email me. Come now, what would Ganesh do?

Gucci is magnificent. I can have the most beautiful boots in the world for around $300 here. (ebay item 5326275666, in case the stupid link won't let you see them.)

I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, If I achieve not this young modest footwear! How magnificent they are! I can't rip my eyes off the image, I can't stop imagining the feel of the supple calfskin and the power of the walk in them. How beautiful! Should I save up for these? Dare I try? Oh the upheaval of my soul! The upheaval!!!

*sniffle* I want them. I love them. They're so pwetty!

And look how well they go with Knee length Skirts! Sigh... 

I have found the perfect boots. They are so beautiful, so classy, so $3200. Oh, I am in love.

As I looked outside at the blaring sun that beat down upon the sidewalk ferociously I decided I was grateful to be sitting in an air-conditioned bus, even though the driver was on crack. I had never been on a bumpier, jerkier bus ride in all my life; the stops were sudden and shaky, the acceleration even more so. Poor, poor crack head driver man.

Today I am elated. I have just been informed that the TA thought my fingerprint to be worthy of a better grade, and that three other graduate students saw my work and agreed along with Larry bear (TA).

“In my opinion, grading was the hardest thing. We would go around the room, and he would hand out Bs to work that I thought barely deserving of a D. And then we would come across prints that I thought were A’s, and he would give worse grades. I think you should have done better, you did good work.”

Oh, divine, sweet positive if mild moral support! Ever since being infuriated by the C+ I received on my fingerprint I had truly begun to doubt my capability, and wondering if I had the talent for what I yearn to do. I am very relieved to hear appreciation for what I spent 62 hours on.

Our current project involves folding paper, even though it is not (as Prof. Adams informs us again and again) origami. I’m enjoying it thoroughly; I will have to post a picture.

I step off the bus and hop onto the sidewalk. In 33 minutes I watch the second session of general conference, and then hopefully go shopping for boots. I shall also have to call Elisse again, because she has disappeared. I cross the busy street, wincing into the blinding sun. Soon, I think, soon this heat will flee and the softest white will cover this city.

I don’t know if I yearn for that or dread it.

Bah. I see no reason why Physics TAs should be so adorable. I decided to go to a different study session today, due to the overwhelming oblivion and confusion ever present as I endeavor to plow through the work. I fell in love with the TA. He’s quirky, hilarious, and absolutely brilliant. And oh yes, I shan’t forget that he’s gorgeous, either. I couldn’t stop staring into his bright blue eyes today, and I’m not even one that fancies blue eyes (brown all the way, my friends). He’s insanely skinny, but he pulls off the difficult gangly look magnificently, and I actually understand what he teaches! It’s novel!

Sigh.

Well, let’s move on to a subject more relevant to my life, shall we? Today I secured a babysitting job that I think is going to be a beautiful thing for me. Mondays, 1PM to 4PM at $12 an hour. The kids are wonderful, too, the only negative aspect about this is that it makes me want to have a baby. And that scares me.

And if he reads this I think my dad is probably flipping out too.

Come,
come to me,
come touch the earth.
Drop upon me and fight
in all that magnificent fury
of yours.
Tear this skin,
melt me like wax,
beckon the tears from my face
and the visions from my eyes.
I can’t stop you;
your glory is beautiful,
your edges and shades are a delight
to me.
So come caress this land,
Wash me down and purify,
Refine my rapture
And form a fitter matron.

 

My trip was fabulous and inspired a new mentality in my worldview which I hope to the highest heavens isn’t permanent.

I really don’t like school. It’s cliché and terribly typical, but I want to see all that I can and experience the cultures that are so starkly but beautifully different. I want to leave, not next semester, not when I’m 18, I want to leave now.

I won’t. Of course I won’t. Even my wildest dreams are incapable of banishing my logic. I’ll finish this semester, of course, I’ll wrap up this year. But I think I want to take a year off and just go. How idealistic this is! Why has prudence and rationality and practicality fled me?

What I need to do is this: acquire a large sum of money in a short span of time and utilize these funds in traveling.

Sounds easy enough.

Daddy and I. 

My precious father and me. 

My Grandfather Jens (Dada) and me. 

My Grandmother, Aina (known to me as Mimi) and me. 

"Rachael, are you ready?" The bat shakily drawled, as was her wont.

Poor gal. There appears to have occurred a particularly violent earthquake this morning while she was applying her eye liner. Or maybe she wasn't going for the 'eye liner' look, perhaps the 'big black spots blotted around eye' approach appealed to her far more.

It's always funny to see the bat decked out. She curls her hair into large duskish clouds that swirl up in such a way that upon first sight one in forced to think that a pitchy storm decided to perch itself upon her head. She then accentuates the inclement weather that whisks about above with red lipstick applied in large, jagged strokes that turns her wrinkled mouth into a pointy rouged star that was slapped on her face sometime earlier. It's a very dramatic affair; whenever I see her with makeup full on I do a little double take that's always a bit difficult to recover from.

“We need to go.” She whistled two minutes later. I looked down at my watch. The clocker read 2, the plane left at 4:35.

“Mormor, we at least have another half hour, don't you think?” I inquired.

“I might get lost.”

To the airport? You jump on the freeway and follow the signs. How could you get lost?

I looked down at the stumpy woman who at that moment in time was busily running into her bedroom door in an attempt to infiltrate the lair.

“Yeah, you're right. We'd better go soon.”

Okay. This week is finished. Finally.

I believe I did OK on my fingerprint, and I also believe that I was thrashed and thrashed hard by the physics exam. As I left the room I couldn’t help but laugh, I had done so badly.

Mediocrity is depressing. An insanely extreme degree of failure, however, is just comical.

No, I didn’t do that wretchedly, although I probably scored 60ish. I probably did average, but it sucked all the same simply because I studied so hard. In the last 2 days I’ve gotten 9 hours of sleep, which is absurdly low for a slumber devotee such as my self. But, alas, I now fly to Cincinnati, and for four days I will be released from the seemingly unremitting clutches of school work. Huzzah. Huzzah indeed.

I am happy to be expanding in the different ways that I am, I rejoice in growth; it truly is a pursuit of mine. But it’s hard. It’s so hard and these last couple of days opened my eyes to a glimpse of pushing oneself and the necessity of doing so.

So Argh. I shall do it and find a way to enjoy it to the fullest. In the meantime I shall eat kix and contemplate packing before attacking my couch in a cataleptic onslaught to which I will shortly succumb.

I bid you adieu.

I busy. I’m busy studying, I’m busy painting, I’m busy commuting between the two.

I’m afraid I can’t write, but Friday morning at 9:35 I’ll be done with this week, done with my fingerprint, done with my first Physics final. I might have time for a quick word, and If I do I'll post. Farewell until then, my darlings.

I spent the last 2 hours curled up into a ball leaning my head on mum. It’s so extremely interesting; when one is ill, there is no better medication then a caring mom. When she came home I hurriedly scampered to her and began to whine. She made me soup, and then put in my ear drops in my evil, tortuous ear while I laid in her warm, big bed. Just mum’s presence is enough to comfort me when I am needy, which happens to be a large portion of the time I’m conscious.

Oh, mum’s a doll.

I’ve run out of paint again, so I’m going to just do one print tonight, and simply gnaw on professor Adams arm when he casts his bug eyes on me through his translucent Gucci glasses and tells me I need to work harder. I need to really buckle down, I realize; the final’s due on Thursday. But Alas! I am tired and annoyed by a rebellious ear. So if you tell me to work harder I’ll bite your arm off.

I’m going to go play Simpsons road rage (best game ever) with Ricky and then go get the fingerprint of pain.

At 1:30 this morning I was woken by a sharp pain in my right ear, which prevented me from sleeping for the rest of the night.

The pain worsened during class today, which made physics even less bearable.

The doctor tells me I have Otitis Media.

Stupid ear.

The beautiful voice of a mezzo soprano washes over me, singing softly and sweetly Mozart’s Ave Maria as it filters through the speakers in front of me. This piece especially is so incredibly beautiful and soft, the singer is absolutely amazing. What miraculous notes enfold me at this moment! She sings with an edgy emotion that creates an eroded tension soothed by the fluid notes she sings.

I had a wonderful day today, it was wonderful to be with my family after mum and I forgot the disturbance of this morning. We had the missionaries over for dinner and had a wonderful evening.

I’m going to Cincinnati on Thursday (maybe Friday afternoon, depending solely upon whether my physics professor will let me take his exam a day early) to see my father’s parents, Mimi and Dada. I’m very excited.

Sleep well, dears. May you fly to the clouds and sweep gently into your reveries tonight.

Professor Rudolph-

I am a student in your Physics 2010 class, and I attend your lectures on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 7:30 AM. I simply wished to write you regarding your examination policy. This last weekend presented a family emergency to me, and I must fly to Cincinnati as soon as the week is over. It would be greatly appreciated if I could take the exam on Thursday, September 23, as opposed to Friday morning on the 24. I realize we are given a 'freebie' exam, but I was wondering if there was any way I could be granted an opportunity to take the exam a day early so as to improve my chances of getting a better grade in the class. If this is not possible, I understand completely the importance of policy but simply thought I would run it past you in order to be aware of my options in full.

Sincerely,
ivory

(Naturally I put real name, #, email, etc.)

What do you think? Will it work? Cross your fingers for me!

Mum and I are in a bit of a tiff (again). Last year I clearly expressed that I was not helping on the paper route; it’s ridiculous and I refuse to support it. They have to drive down to the paper depot, pick up the papers, stuff them, put them in the car, drive back up to our neighborhood and deliver. Let’s look at this logically, shall we? The depot is a good 3, 4 miles away, and while driving a car that gets 17 miles to the gallon they spend a quarter a day in gas, not including the rapid depreciation of the car due to the miles they’re piling on it. The family receives 6 dollars a day. 6 dollars! It takes 3 people an hour to do the route, and after gas they each make less than 2 dollars an hour.

My sleep is worth much, much more than 2 dollars an hour.

“It’s not about the money.” Jeff declared today at breakfast. It’s not? Oh, so it must be about the exalting elation one experiences while getting up at 5 AM to be underpaid. I understand that. If that’s your cup of tea, that’s just fine, just don’t get me involved.

Today mum came to me at some ungodly hour of the morn and shook me into consciousness. “We need help with the paper.” She said.

I rolled over and mumbled incoherently but defiantly into my pillow.

“Fine. But if you’re too tired to help us with the paper route, then I’m too tired to ever help you with your physics again.” With this she left the room.

What smashing logic! I can easily see how a paper route that is not taken out of financial necessity can be fairly compared to the pursuit of a higher education! It makes so much sense!

When I did wake up to the noise of the kitchen, I heard mum’s sharp tone from my bedroom.

“Is that for Rachael? Give me the phone, I know exactly what to say to them.”

“No, don’t invite her to breakfast, she doesn’t want to come.” Just to prove her wrong I slid out of bed and wobbled over to the table to scornfully fall into my chair.

“Jeff would you like a glass of milk? How about you, Mormor? Ricky?”

How can someone so old act so immature? Am I wrong in insisting to be left out of the paper route? I assisted last week and decided that it was rubbish that I didn’t want to dabble in; I see no reason in doing something so pointless.

So mum and I are in a tiff, and I’ve decided to go to Yale II today instead of Yale I with the fam. Ever since we moved I’ve attended both each week; I want to continue to support the Yale II young women but now also need to support Yale I because I’m in the boundaries. This seems like a small feat, but it’s not; Mormon Church is 3 hours long, for those of you who don’t know, and 6 hours in one day can be a bit much some weeks. So today I stayed home (though I’m going to attend a full 3 hours at 1:00), and I feel like such a sinner! It’s funny, but I feel so rebellious while I’m home alone, I don’t know why. It’s nice to have the home to myself, though.

Frustration is not conducive to decent or lucid writing, I’m afraid, so I apologize for such wretched material. Back in February I put much more time and thought into my blog then I do now, and what I produced was of some merit, I feel. I want to resume writing with some type of rationality, and I truly am endeavoring to do so. It is a laborious task, though, so it will take me awhile to climb back into my better habits. But hopefully I’ll start delivering something better, something deeper, and occasionally comical.

I can’t even end this entry fluidly. Ah, this is terrible! I shouldn’t post this but I need to publish the good and the bad; an accurate portrayal of my thoughts is much more important then flowery articulation, I suppose. So farewell, dearest reader, and do try to bear with me during this scarcity of brilliance. It will return to me shortly, I pray.

Last night I didn’t quite feel like going to bed, so I surfed a bit, read, and tried like mad to download Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow because it looks cute.

Around two o’ clock in the morning the bat entered the dining room in a dress and a wide rimmed hat.

“Where is everyone, did they already leave for church?” She croaked.

“Mormor, it’s two in the morning. Why are you awake?” I inquired.

“Oh, it is? Oh my…” With this she wobbled back into the hallway and out of my sight.

Oh my indeed.

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