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

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

*shakes a coiled fist at the sky*

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

This is going to make Bryan very happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I win.

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

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

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

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

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

-Taken from Dangerous Liaisons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sweet smell of completion…

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

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

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

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

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

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

brilliance.

This just in:

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

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

- I think I am developing an eye infection.

That is all.

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

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

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

cow + labor = bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Works of Eyvind Earle, courtesy of gallery21.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Update:


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

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

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

-I have yet to finish catch-22.

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

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

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


That is all.

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

For example: popcorn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This will be fun.

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

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

I'll be waiting.

Oh, I don't think I told you.

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

Magnificent, that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

“To whom it may concern,

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

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

Sincerely Yours,
The Prodigal Daughter. “

I WILL CLEAN NO MORE FOREVER.

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

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

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

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

That is all.

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

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

You bastards....

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

It will eat me.

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

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


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


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

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

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

This past week I have read:

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

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

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

I'll think about it.

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

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

“It's almost eight, dear.”

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

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

“Do you want to stay in bed?”

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

“You can stay in bed if you like.”

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

“Where's the clock?”

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

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

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

“What type of tea would you like?”

“White, thank you.”

“It will be ready in a moment.”

“Darling...”

“Yes?”

“You said it was almost eight.”

“Yes...”

“The clock on the stove reads 7:10.”

“.......”

“.......”

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

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

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

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

“Happy Valentines Day, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did want to stay in bed, in all actuality; I haven't been sleeping well lately, and I was tired, but I wanted to stay in bed with you and lazily wake up with you in my arms. I'm fine as long I can hear the sounds of your preparation: the shower, the water running as you shave, the noises you make when you iron your clothes. But the moment you leave, however joyous it makes me when you come up to the loft, dressed and shaved and smelling divinely of lotion and after shave and shampoo, however sweet and gentle the kiss is as I lay in your bed, my hair still a mess, my eyes only half-opened, it's mysteriously heart-breaking when I hear the door close and know that you've gone to work. I'll see you tomorrow, and though it shouldn't make me melancholy, it does. The bed seems so vast, so empty; I smell your scent on the pillow next to me and I want to cry.

Announcement:

I just attempted to print a document. My printer printed said document without emitting disturbing noises and rapidly spewing forth numerous pages on which, almost mockingly, a single smiley face is normally printed.

This is a big day for me.

Alrighty. Note to self:

Previous post is very important. I was, however, tired and approaching a very long day of school and vagina monologue performance. I need to elaborate on the billion different ideas I squashed in there, however. So, your job, little reader, is to make sure I do that some time soon. Got it? Cool.

Important points are as follows:

-the relativity shpeal (speele? Shpeale? Is that even a word? I'm too tired to have a clue. You know the one I'm talking about, right? You do? Cool). So yes, I need to explain why Hume is a jackass. As is our little friend Immanuel Kant. Hume more so than Kant, but they're jackasses all the same.
-the whole "I see my life in prose" thing. Quite true, that one. Must be written about further.
-there was something else in there, I think. Find out what it was, and then make sure I get back to it, and don't let me slack off! Under any circumstance! Got it?

Cool.

I see my life in prose, in bits of description; the streets I approach and walk down and through are met by my curious reaction before I even catch glimpse of them. Relativity is rubbish; I believe it truth; I feel no need at all to define it, but I believe in it. This truth is subject to interpretation, but truth it still is, and our interpretation of such does not void the reality which initially spurned said interpretation. I know that my mind slightly alters the things that surround me, in one way or another, and no one will ever see the world quite as I see it. I catch pieces of promising observation and I feel like a child attempting to catch the wind when her arm is stuck out the car window. Not to say I don't succeed; the mortal hand of the child does indeed capture the wind, and she holds it as long as the car forcefully pushes nothing into her little hand. One might think that she's left empty-handed as the car rolls to a stop, but to the contrary; gushes of wind are the most palpable things I think I've ever held.

I couldn't be happier with the way that I think. My ability to express such is found wanting time and time again, but as for the musings that govern my mood, I am, for the most part, an optimist. Regardless of my mania and my frustrations, the observations I make reveal a world of beauty and of potential.

Everything fits together when the aspects of this world are but devices in my paragraph, and nothing is disagreeable when every occurrence is merely method for my craft. Life is more pleasant when it is simply a thought you have yet to write.

I had a nice weekend. I spent the vast majority of it with Bryan, as I normally do. On Friday we went to dinner at Bella, which was splendid, complete with trendy music, hordes of trendy people, and marvelously overpriced food. Saturday we attended our tango lesson (yes, we're taking tango lessons, and we're damn good. Just for the record, however: if you wish to try and test a relationship, take tango). Later that evening we cooked dinner and I got completely tanked on a bottle of Italian wine (we still don't know what kind, exactly; it was one of those mysterious table wines of some mysterious berry that never quite comes to light. We purchased it because the man at the adorable wine bar in Hyde Park told us to, and after the fact I've come to the conclusion that he doesn't even work there at all, but rather is a homeless man that sleeps on the corner and occasionally trots into the store, poses as an employee, and aggressively recommends the worst wine he can find to gullible shoppers. Not only are Bryan and I gullible shoppers, but we're polite ones as well, and therefore had no choice but to purchase the wine as he advised us to). To my credit, however, I had also had a couple glasses of Stonehaven chardonnay, which surely explains why I was running in circles and attempting to rock-climb the concrete floor while animatedly screaming as I pretended to fall.

Yes, yes, I know dear reader: I'm an annoying drunk. But lord almighty, how I enjoy myself!

I've stumbled over my lack of constraint like a pair of floppy shoes, and now I've nothing left to say. Do as you wish, darling; do what you do. I'll see you again, in the rain; that glimpse of red will haunt me as I quickly turn my eyes from you and studiously focus on whatever can distract me; I'll shuffle towards the back door of the shop as I desperately try to get away from you.

To all those fellow "bloggers" who insist on starting blogs and feel that the one time you posted way back in 2002 is sufficient: go to hell. For those of you "bloggers" who find it acceptable, and, for some reason, worth your time to execute the above stated annoyance with 9 different blogs: go to the only place worse than religion's fictionalized hell: Newark and/or Detroit.

Today I decided to browse the blog profiles of those who currently call Cinci their home sweet home. 40 profiles were found, and all either contained 1-4 posts total or were written by individuals who listen to Kenny G. Needless to say, Cincinnati is not the intellectual mecca of my faithless dreams.

Stupid lazy-ass Ohio-ites....

It's at times like these that I wish I had a god to pray to; pressure builds, opportunities become convoluted, and my future depends on something that depends on something that has something to do with Ohio residency. How nice it would be to fold my arms and bank it all on faith.

Unfortunately though, I've decided to believe that my future is built solely on the consequences of my actions. I've been scrambling around the UC all day to day, (by the way, PARKING IS A BITCH) and I left the crazy campus with less hope than I had entering earlier that day. Though crowded, the atmosphere of the UC is what I want and what I need; the design building was massive and complex, and thoroughly enjoyable. The industrial program in which I hope to enroll, however, is much more competitive than I originally thought, and even if I get accepted I have to find a way around the $21,000 a year out-of-state tuition (I have my wiles, mind you, so it's not as impossible as it might seem, but it's pretty damn close). I'll continue to accost those in charge of the program with emails and messages, but until then I suppose I'll just have to cross my fingers as opposed to folding my arms.

An interesting thing happened the other day, by the way: I received an email from Elisse and called her the following day. I'm afraid the incentive of my original post might be misinterpreted, therefore, for I was not attempting to be passive-aggressive and urge Elisse to strike up correspondence, but merely trying to address what had happened by writing about it. We had a pleasant conversation; things seemed back to normal for a bit, but when I called her back later that day everything seemed awkward. There are aspects of my life that will never be definite, it seems, that will never be simple, but rather will always be multi-faceted, two-faced, and will always leave me guessing. Nothing is easy, even the things that are intuitive.

The cursor of my text editor blinks inside the screen in front of me; comfortably it rocks steadily in and out of view, reminding me that the page is blank, that it hasn't moved since I sat down in front of my computer. I, for a mawkish moment, admire the endurance of this little bar and its insistence to blink. Black to white, there and back, in and out of existence as the metronome of my words.

This paper has nothing to do, nothing to do at all with leaves, or the silly way that they litter my life. I have nothing left to say and no more cunning ways to disguise the fact that I never had anything to say about leaves. The journey of a writer, however, inspires volumes in my mind and means everything to me. Without expression, after all, we have nothing. The thoughts we think often lead us to growing beyond those same thoughts, yet at times they lead us to contradiction; we run around in circles as we chase truth, beauty, pain, whatever it is we endeavor to wrestle to the floor and force onto paper. Thus is the crux of each writer's task: there are millions of words, thousands of styles and voices in which to speak, but developing the perfect way to articulate one's perception takes a lifetime. I don't understand what surrounds me, all I know is that it is beautiful. Greedily, quite greedily, I desire to capture it. Notes scribbled down on napkins, bits of writing on my hands, for some reason these scattered fragments lend me peace because they seem palpable. Words, however beautiful, will not define my reality- I wouldn't have it so, dear friend, for truth exists behind the thick fabric of our arrogant discernment- but they help me discover what I truly think and eventually help me to change my mind over and over again. A true irony, it is: writing about my exhausting confusion is what makes me happy.

I've probably started thirty journals in my lifetime. We're all guilty of this crime; we spend twenty dollars on a flashy product from Barnes and Noble, we justify the expense by reciting the importance of frequent writing in our minds as we finger the shiny cover, we promise to write. A week passes by and already the journal has joined the others, and it lives a nice, full life complacently collecting dust on the shelf as it wastes our space. I cannot express how tragic this is, I cannot impart how regretful we will find ourselves. Countless times I have looked back over my writing and found that my most trying times- those that would probably yield the most insight- have come and gone without a single snippet of thought. I let days, weeks, months pass by as I neglect the process that nourishes me. Let us be honest with ourselves: frequent writing is the only thing that separates a writer from an idiot holding a pen. Disciplining myself to write daily has proved to be excruciatingly difficult, and, during various spouts of time, completely hopeless. When I have succeeded in this arduous challenge, however, and have managed to write steadily for a certain period of time, I am always overwhelmed to remember that the raw process of writing never grows easy, and that the rabid slew of editing and revision that follows never grows thin. Our present ideas chase those of the previous sentence around, above and back again, and I hasten to paste them together and make sense of it all. I come to new conclusions and dismiss those of the past until it is time to rediscover the old and start the cycle over again.

The journey never feels like an ideal path that winds around green hills, but rather a high-school track with hurdles of steel and sharp drop offs that leave me thoroughly confounded. That's how it is meant to be, I suppose; that it is how it functions best. Our sentiments sit on the concrete floor in front of us like newspaper clippings, and I'm confident that a shard of rhyme and a sliver of reason will eventually float to the top.

I don't think I have demons, so to speak, that lurk in my past. No real secrets lie there anymore, forced into repression by external guilt and a lifestyle I never understood nor truly wanted. Things are just things, if I might be so brilliantly articulate to say; things that have happened. It would be foolish to once again embark on the bold pursuit of daily writing with a fresh update of where I work and what I've been doing, because that's not writing. None of that matters, and it certainly won't provide the necessary excitement or vigor required to invigorate my lazy writing habits. I dance around the things that plague me, these things that have happened, and I attempt to ignore them though I know how they affect me. Namely, August 12, 2005: my birthday, and, ironically, the last day I saw or spoke to Elisse.

The simple thought of the ordeal bears witness to the damage I have done; where are the dates, the times, the emotional upheaval and the heart-wrenching despair, why have I neglected to write about this? I now have nothing but a brief overview of the affair, an overview that has been knocked out of focus and robbed of detail by the months I've allowed to pass. What little I have now, however, shouldn't share the fate of the rest of the story; as lame as the saying is, "better late than never".

Elisse had come to visit. I remember, through all the uncertainty, that her flight was delayed and I fought back frustrated tears as I teetered on my high heels and rushed from terminal to terminal. I clutched a piece of paper upon which the words "PUDDIN HEAD" were printed in large, capital letters- I thought it charming to stand next to the chauffeurs and hold my sign proudly while boasting a serious, stern expression (needless to say I summoned many a curious expression from passersby) - but my plan was foiled, and when I finally found her the silly sign was crumpled and in my purse. She wore a black peasant skirt, and told me through her amusement of my frazzled condition about the man she had met on the plane. We climbed into daddy's convertible and sped towards the city.

Of the days that followed there is little to say, I suppose; we went out to eat plenty with my father and spent the rest of the time lounging about the house. We went one night to Eden Park, kicked off our shoes and sat on the edge of the gazebo while we chatted into the placid buzzing of the bushes around us. We discussed my father, my currently secret relationship with Bryan, her life and mine. Without her I wouldn’t of had the courage to tell my father about Bryan, and I will always feel rightly indebted to her. I miss the comfort of those particular nights, those particular conversations, and as fatiguing as tears are I long for the connection I could only ever establish with Elisse. This connection, however, was of the deepest kind, and shared between two very arrogant individuals, and it therefore produced endless spouts of bickering, tears that flowed angrily and generously, and, most unfortunately, a fallacious resentment for Elisse that I easily stuffed deep inside of me and never bothered to confront. It was she, after all, that exposed me to life outside of Utah, outside of the religion I was born into. It was she that provided the intellectual oasis for which I hungered, and naturally my life took a course that differed from the average Mormon high school student. I still don't know why I blamed her for the consequences these changes brought- the suffocating guilt I felt from the belief to which I had been espoused so long, harsh judgment and animosity from previous Mormon friends, though I had always despised them, and my mother, above all the complete chaos brought on by my mother- I blamed Elisse, be it secretly, unwillingly, or perhaps completely unconsciously.

The frustration always lingered, always loitered about when I was alone, always resurfaced, though it was never expressed and never approached. The disdain billowed freely inside of me yet didn’t appear to exist outside of my bitter thoughts. I’ll never forget the scorn with which my voice shook when I looked her in the eye, during one heated argument or another, and announced without flinching:

“I hate you. I will always hate you.”

I remember the silence that followed, I remember watching the blow as it was delivered and tragically received, I remember the look on Elisse’s face as her expression dropped and her mouth opened in pain. I remember half-assing an apology, still angry, still infuriated. I remember her saying that some things can not be excused or swept away, that some things cannot be retracted once said, that she couldn’t bear my malice and treat herself fairly simultaneously. I remember my father trying to mediate while we cried and accused each other with our jaws tightly clenched.

Above all, I remember standing on the porch before she climbed into Cindy’s car, and bitterly hugging in a weak attempt to lend poetry to the ordeal. There was nothing poetic about this moment, nothing at all. In a relationship so consumed with passion, companionship and extremes, this ending seemed so meaningless. There was no fire in our tears, they were merely tears that ran down our cheeks and bloated our faces. I didn’t cling to her as I watched her go; childish hostility pulled us away from each other regardless of how close our bodies were. We were through playing grown-up, we were done wearing our posh heels together and talking philosophy, tearing down others in our elitism; the haughtiness of our games had faded to reveal that we were children fighting over crayons, that I was too young, too foolish, too utterly consumed in my self-preservation to realize how fucking happy it made me to know that I had her. We were children.

At least I was. I went inside, and spent the next couple of days spewing insults and promises of hatred into the journal she had given me for my birthday. Twenty-eight pages passed, and once I had filled them with the dirtiest, rudest, most hostile words I could muster, I was fine.

Completely fine.

The resentment I had allowed to fester inside of me for years, literally years, melted, mysteriously, into that leather-bound journal. I was fine.

Completely fine.

Except for the fact that I was alone now and Elisse was gone. We had pushed each other away, and in the end I triumphed; it was my bitterness that ended our friendship. She’s in Salt Lake now, I assume, doing whatever it is that she does now, associating with those that surround her, filling her days with what she chooses to. I know nothing as to how Elisse has been, and it kills me. I hope to god that she’s in school, that she’s taken care of, that she’s still with Carter, that she’s happy. I hope she’s still a snob, I hope that she still laughs and that she still cries. She’s stopped writing in her blog, and I can’t help but think that her cessation acted as a final mean of finalizing the space that lies between us. She writes elsewhere now, in a place that can’t reassure me. My writing, though neglected, sits on the same page where it has always been, and I know, somehow I know, that she’s visited it at least once since she left, and if she hasn’t she will. I just know.

As to the journal in which I carved the murderous, enraged thoughts that released me, I haven’t opened it since.

I’m simply not brave enough to.

Perhaps I’ll sneak to the library during my break and type what I have written. Perhaps today is the only day of release in the midst of an impetuous stream of damp, thoughtless times. Perhaps I’ll return to you, perhaps I’ll sloppily continue to neglect you despite my new-years-resolution-esque promises to come back. Perhaps I’ll tell you what has happened, perhaps I’ll finally explain why I clumsily forced Elisse to leave me. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Fuck fickleness.

Fuck the topic. Finally, paper lies before me and begs for my words, and finally I am forced to deliver. Yesterday, like every day of the past five months, I promised myself I’d write- about anything; the fierce sunset that captivated me during my drive home, the bland emptiness of the day, the depression of the rut I’ve slipped into- but like the months before, my day comes to an end without a word to show for it. Here I sit in this juvenile composition class, and I realize that I’ve denied myself what I need. I need to write, I need to express myself, I need to look over the pages I have written and therein explore. As I write I realize that I might ignore the necessity of expression, but it never fades, merely continues to burn hungrily in the unconscious. What is a life if it is undocumented? What is growth if it is ignored? Dearest reader, I have returned, and relief drops to my head and trickles down my body. I have so much to tell, sweet friend, and I’ve discovered so much! I beg you to listen and make me tell; drag me back to responsibility in my writing. Let me impart the tears and laughter of these past times. Sweet friend, my darling, my love, oh how I’ve missed you!

Generally, life goes well. I am working at two restaurants: Chart house and the Claddagh Irish pub . Bussing tables can be tiring, but in the end it's the best money available and it pays my minimal bills. This semester draws to an end peacefully, leaving me with four A's and the previously mentioned B in accelerated calculus (grumble), but all in all I feel very little pressure from my finals. My thanksgiving went well, and I look forward to returning to salt lake on the 23rd for a couple of days. Things are calm, and I am happy. Generally, life goes well.

If there is any bit of wisdom that my eighteen years have afforded me it is the knowledge that intensely emotional interaction is costly. Bitter tears certainly have their place, but they must be respected and reserved wisely before they wear thin the ties of companionship. Do not dress selfish escapades in the fine, transparent linens of humanitarianism and selfless concern; I have seen such attempts once, twice, too many times, too many times have I been the perpetrator and acted in the same way. You honestly mistake your endeavors toward reassurance, and, if needed, reinstatement for selflessness. I stand exasperated, too experienced in the matter to retort with hypocrisy yet not wise enough to act maturely, with equity and compassion, and handle the situation well. My face is clean, my eyes are dry, and we are okay, but I remember the consuming despair such scuffles can lead to; I know the tears that rattle you, that keep you from breathing but won't let you drown. I recall the deadly, bittersweet time and note that I am now too old to cry like that. The realization rises to my mind and I smile: such is not true, I'm afraid; I am, and always have been much too young to cry like that.

It is frustrating, darling, to find that I’ve fallen into a relationship that’s flawless yet so damn inconvenient. I see opportunities to slowly graft myself back to normality, back to the norm, back to the meaningless expectations. They don’t tempt me, darling, you know they don’t; how ridiculous to lend a second to distraction when every moment brings my thoughts back to you. I take his number, wishing his endeavors, though innocent, were as platonic as they appear, that his odd Kentucky gentility and truly sweet demeanor didn’t hold hopes of something more than friendship. I wish I could call him, that I could begin other friendships I so direly need without feeling guilty or inappropriate. You and I happily operate outside the borders of the masses, benefiting from subversiveness and enjoying phenomenal compatibility, every aspect of our world perfect save its isolation. There are times, however, when I gaze towards the big city, rife with vice and pettiness, seething with destructive unimportance, and I long for the comfort of stupid, meaningless people who understand.