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.