March 1st

the aforementioned video:

new blog, crazys!

i'm movin on.

blogger is running a bit slow and refusing to update my pictures,so i'm back to wordpress.

plus, there's some new art up!

http://www.lifewiththecrazys.wordpress.com

obsessed

#teamluke is making my life so much better already.

Sean Hayes - When We Fall In from cleanwhitelines on Vimeo.

Happy Birthday DAD!

Today is my father's birthday. Let's all celebrate by:

-waking up before the sun

-reading the paper cover to cover and then replacing it in the exact same position it was before we picked it up.

-taking a mid-afternoon nap.

-building fires for our families

-cooking crock-pot meals

-reading lots of books with emergent titles

-teaching crowds of high schoolers about jesus

-getting lots of tattoos on our awkward forearms

-growing our hair out forever

-loving baseball, hockey, football, and auburn.

-wearing jeans that are a little too big

-doing P90X.

-loving our alone time

-blogging.

Mandarins

Lately, everyone I know is obsessed with baby oranges. I like mandarins, but i know people who love tangerines. We don't hate each other.

But could you all please look at HOW TINY this mandarin is. Its a baby.

Snowpocalypse 2010

This is my second week day at home. Our little city seems to be going through an identity crisis. Some years in the metroplex I have worn shorts on Valentine's Day. Some years its only a light jacket. But this year, this fateful year, is the year of the snowpocalypse. This year, the bipolar god of texas weather has brought us ten fluffy inches of snow. Ten fluffy inches of clean, white, self-reflective snow.

For the first time in months, I've had some time to just sit. I did some much-needed work, and spent quality time with a few friends, but now I am enjoying my time in thought. I sit in my chair and gaze across the white, smooth snow. Its pretty, and fixed and clean. It reminds me of childhood and forgiveness. Looking at the snow, I wish I was a kid again. I wish I had the desire to run out into the snow and build a fort, or an igloo, or a snowman. I wish I was incredibly excited about the snow and the fun it could bring me.

Once it snowed when I was in elementary school. It may have snowed more than once during my childhood, but this is the time I remember. I was in third or fourth grade and old enough to go to the park with some friends. My sister and I had walked around the corner to the little park by my house and were in the heat snow fortress building. There were other kids there, who I could not remember if I tried, and they too were building a fort to hide behind. Despite the fake Texas ice/snow, we were going to have a snowball fight: pain or not. One of those kids said something mean to me and I hit him in the face with a snowball. I don't remember what he said, but I remember feeling hurt, and I remember reacting.

So the snow reminds me of forgiveness. The snow reminds me of that time I hurt that boy only because he hurt me. The snow reminds me of the voice I heard-and still hear in my head- that day. The sound of my mother telling me to, "go say you're sorry," normally directing me toward my sister. The snow makes me think that maybe I need to be more like that little girl I used to be. The little girl who felt heartbroken about hurting someone else. The little girl who admitted she was wrong and asked for forgiveness.

As I've grown up, I've stopped saying that I am sorry. I've stopped listening to my mother's voice inside my head. Instead I tell myself that I am in the right. That I know what is best. That even though I may have been proven wrong, I will hold my ground. That my selfishness is really self-confidence. That my truthfulness is more legitimate than other people's emotions. But really, I should say that I am sorry more. I should apologize. I should be more like that snow: clean and forgiving of all of the dead horrid grass beneath it.

Thank you snowpocalypse, for being so forgiving.

Bruised

When I woke up Sunday morning I found small round bruises on the tops of my shins. They were small, and round and red. It seemed as if someone had just poked me really hard repeatedly until they broke the delicate tissue underneath my outer layer.  My bruises are formed as half of a semi-circle; the bottom of a smiley face.  I amusedly poked at them upon their discovery. I was enchanted by these mystery circles. I was drawn to them: intrigued.
I cannot remember the last time I had a bruise.  I remember being covered in them as a child, because I always have been incredibly uncoordinated. In every childhood photo, I can make out the dark purple splotches on the insides of my knees.  I would fall off curbs or bikes or stairs. I would bump into tables or walls and have proof to show for it. Yet despite their everlasting nature, the reason I think I remember them is because I showed them off. I was proud of my darkened circles. They made me feel strong and grown up and alive.
As I stood in the shower this morning and looked down at my darkening, broken skin, I felt sad. I no longer have that pride in my falls. I no longer reminisce over the difficult trials I have gone through to gain my bruises. Instead, I mourn over them. They remind me of hard times and difficult tears and heart ache. They remind me that growing up isn't really all that fun and that being eighteen isn't all it's cracked up to be. My bruises are that vivid image of brokenness. They show that I have failed or messed up or fallen.
I do not like to fall. I like to live life happily with no trials. I like to pretend- naively- that I am perfectly capable of growing without the hard. I like to think that bruises are for the weak; for those who can't hold themselves up. But I cannot hold myself up. I am sinful and wretched and broken. I am bruised.  I cannot control the future or the present or even right now. I am not the boss and I am not gleaming, and tan and prefect. These small semi-circle shaped bruises remind me of that.
So today I am keenly aware of my small bruises: of my faults and falters. I know that in a week or so they will have disappeared and I wont even remember them. I know that when I get bruised again-and i will- I will look back and be unable to remember the last time my skin was purple. But in this moment, on this day, I know who I am. I know that I am selfish and impatient. I know that I lie and say mean things and do not love. I know that I can be flaky and inconsiderate and broken.  I am grateful for that reminder.
Even though its purple.

The easy way out...

Being miserable is easy. Despite what miserable people tell me -well complain to me- I refuse to believe that being miserable is a difficult task. I have a few friends who seem to always be miserable. The world, truly, is out to get them. The universe forces them to be poor time managers, or to fail their test, or for their boyfriend to break up with them. They are always in some form of depression.

In eighth grade I made my first miserable friend. She was, and is, incredibly beautiful. She had thick long red hair and currently has a feather tattooed on the inside of her right arm. She had a stigma I had never been around. She was edgy and dark and she cried ALL THE TIME. She was one of the most miserable people I had ever met. Naturally, in my state of middle school funk, I was immediately drawn to her. I wanted that appeal she seemed to so naturally possess. I wanted to be dark and mysterious and deep. But as I got to know that girl, I learned that she really was broken. That behind her dark eyeliner and stained fingernails was a hard life.

By the end of our eighth grade year, she had moved on from her dark stage. She wore white for the first time in April and I swear I didn't even recognize her. She had moved on, her miserable stage was over. She quit Kurt Cobain for Tom Petty. She was a completely different person. This is not to say that all people who spend their Friday nights smoking and listening to Kurt Cobain in their room are miserable terrible people. It is simply to say that being miserable, for my friend at least, was simply a persona she had allowed herself to fall into.

When I went to coffee with her a few months ago, she told me she was miserable because it was natural. It was convienent for her to wallow in self-pity; to complain all of the time. Now, in no way am I suggesting that we all need to be happy all the time. Happiness is an emotion that oftentimes cannot be controlled. Yet, I still believe there is a joy to be found in living. That even on your most miserable, rotten, Frances Farmer days, there is a mindset that can be found to keep you from complaining constantly.

My father has this phrase: "Happy, shiny people solving problems". I hate that phrase. I hate it because it forces me to work. I hate it because when he says it to you and your angry beyond belief and sick of being wherever it is that you are, it could be the only phrase to push you over the edge. But the reality buried beneath that phrase says that happiness takes work. We cannot continue to blame our problems on our unhappiness, but instead need to take an active role in searching for it. Happiness is not going to just fall down from the sky and give us whatever we want, but instead we need to be willing to find happiness in the things and the places and the people we already have.

Anyone can be miserable.

Girls Night

Last week was a long week. Lately, all of the weeks seem to be taking increasing amounts of time. Every day seems to drag on with little productivity and lots of busy work. There is so much I know that I need to be doing, but so little I am actually interested in accomplishing.  I really don't think I have caught the senioritis bug that seems to be going around-yet. But I can feel the beginnings of it.
Every year at this time of year I get a cold. Two days ago I woke up with a slightly sore throat and this morning I woke up with a runny nose and voice that decides for itself when it wants to work. Though I have not been properly diagnosed, I am really starting to believe I am alergic to one of those floating air molecules that comes from up north this time of year.  Well, I've gotten the sore throat of senioritis. I'm beginning to feel that urge to leave. I'm enrolled in college. I- despite everyone else's dreams for my life- have made my college decision. I am ready to stop doing BCIS online, and waking up at six o'clock am to sit in classes.
So, feeling a bit downtrodden from my last few weeks, I invited a couple of friends over. I am lonely because the boy has been gone for a while now and I'm sick of school and annoyed with almost everything. So, I needed a bit of a pick-me-up.  So for dinner: bell pepper, mushroom, and italian cheese stuffed chicken breasts, buttered smashed potatoes, sauteed veggies and foccocia bread. What better way to spend a Saturday evening watching the Miss America Pageant. 

And, to top it all off, peach dump cake. Delicious.

I'm hoping that these nice nights may ward off my impending runny nose. And with it keep me a bit more content and happy with my surroundings. 

Patience

Anyone who knows me well has a thorough grasp on my inability to retain patience. Those who I love-and luckily continue to love me back- have seen me time and time again wallowing in my own devastation as a result of impatience. In all transparent honesty, my biggest downfall is impatience.

I am unwilling to wait for traffic, or for a college to call me back, or for a friend a few minutes late to coffee. I am burdened daily by distant response times and tedious activities. Most days, my impatience is something I accept as a part of me and rejoice in. I am grateful for my impatience because it gives me something to whine about. Something to hide behind, and blame and use against me. Patience is my biggest struggle.

So as a result I am placed in situations through which I am forced to be patient every day. Patient with myself. Patient with others. Patient with the cars in front of me in rush hour traffic. Patient with college admissions counselors. But I, in all of my selfishness, hate everything about it. I do not want to grow and become a bigger person. I do not want to take the time to create a great piece of art, or write a novel. I do not want to slow my life down from its 150 miles per hour and walk. I want to run to the next stop and complete the task and move on.

Last week, in the beautiful weather my body began urging for physical activity. It wanted to walk, it said. It wanted to go to the lake and hike around a bit. It wanted to spend time in great conversation and deep thought and long coffee dates. Yet my head denied it. My head said that there were far too many things for me to do to worry about silly self-reflective activities. My head refused to give my heart the patience it craved to enjoy last week's beautiful weather.

And now it is cold again. Ugly, and miserable and rainy. I was bitter at the cold, but mostly I am bitter with myself for not enjoying the beauty of the weather while it was here.

As much as I truly hate being taught patience and learning the hard way, I need it. I just wish I could be taught faster.

Editing

I'm avoiding.

For the past four weeks I have looked across my room. I do not touch it. I try not to think about it. I've begun getting shivers every time I touch it. I can go days without even mentioning it. Sometimes I cringe when dear friends ask about. But the worst, the absolute worst, was when I used to open it. Four weeks ago, I would run my hands across its printed pages and sigh deep sighs of relief. Four weeks ago, I used to enjoy having it under my arm and showing it off.

But now, as much as I hate myself for this, I fear it.  I haven't hit writer's block. No, I've been writing like crazy for four weeks. Short stories, and columns, and anecdotes. I've been pouring out words from my endlessly typing fingers. Yet, I cannot direct them where they need to be. I've read four books in four weeks. All about doing the one thing I cannot bring myself to do: EDIT.

So tonight-despite the fact that it is Friday and I should probably be off galavanting with my cronies- I'm going to stop banging my head against the wall and pick it up. That's step one: Pick it up. Step two: the first. five. pages. Step three: edit.

I'm hoping to get through step one.

The Crimson Theory.

As a child, I spent many Saturday nights watching my father neglect dinner. It's not that he doesn't like to eat. In fact, he has spent most of my life tidying up whatever we didn't eat of family dinner. Leftovers, in my father's brain, are kind of a waste. Yet whenever his Auburn Tigers ran out onto the field, the food would wait. He loved his team. Correction, he LOVES his team. He watches the pre-game and the post-game show.  My mom, who also went to Auburn and grew up in a football obsessed family, also enjoyed the football games. She, however, could eat.
I grew up an Auburn Tiger. I grew up singing Bottagetta and saying War Eagle during kick-offs. Mostly, I grew up hating the Alabama Crimson Tide. I grew up ignoring people in Alabama sweatshirts. I still feel a great desire to honk at people driving cars with ugly crimson A's on them. My Calculus teacher says that if you have made up your mind about something by age 12, there is a 78% chance you will never change it.
Though her statistics are becoming more and more far-fetched, this one I think are reliable. I made up my mind at the age of three about the way I feel about Crimson, and still today it stands strong.
My number one college choice is the University of Texas at Austin. Their rival is Oklahoma. Who wear what color? Crimson. My reach school is Yale University. Their rival is Harvard. Who wear what color? Crimson. Even my back up schools have blue colors. I have chosen schools that neglect and deny any spiritwear caked in that wretched color. I don't own a single piece of crimson clothing. And I have never done an art piece with Crimson.
My hatred for Crimson runs deep. So last night, watching the BCS Championship Game, I was fuming. When Colt McCoy walked off the field, I cursed the color that did that to him. When we had to put in our baby freshman quarterback, I begged him to beat on the Crimson on the other side of the line.  I fought, hard and long against that Alabama team I had grown up detesting, but they still won. They didn't beat Auburn. It was worse. For once, they were beating MY team. Not my parents team. Not my grandparents team.

I hate alabama.

Barbies and Colleges

The people in my family never played Barbies the right way. My sister would jump the parts of Barbie's life she thought were insignificant. She would move Barbie along to prom, or her wedding without ever having to work to get there. In her world, Barbie had no reason to ride in her yellow Volkswagen bug when she could ride in the pink stretch limo with six of her closest Barbie friends. Barbie always wore full ball gowns and a fancy up-do. Together, we found ourselves fighting over what exactly playing Barbies was supposed to be about.

I thought Barbies should have rules, and regulations. I thought that even make-believe land should follow basic order. And basic order said that Barbie had to go shopping for a dress, and fight to get a date before she could even think about going to prom. My sister viewed it as a time to fantasize; a time with no boundaries and no boring obligations to hold her back. I fought hard for my shopping trip and discreet flirting. I tried to convince her of the obvious reality that my way was the right way. I knew how to play barbies. She was obviously confused.

She wasn't the only one who didn't know how to play though. My father was equally as bad. I remember thumping the front of his newspaper as he tried to read and begging him to play with us. My sister and I would simply move our game to his belly and annoy until he caved. We would beg him to join our game until, with great hesitation, he would gently fold his great paper back up and pick up a Ken doll. Even my idiot baby sister knew he played the wrong way. First, my father never wanted to go to prom. His form of Barbies involved taking Barbie and Ken on an extensive hike up Backofthecouch Mountain. When the two would finally reach the summit, he would throw Ken across the room exclaiming "OWWWW, I broke my leggggg." At which point Ken would retire to the hospital to have his femur set, and my father would return to his paper.

I look back at that little girl, and I can still feel the pulls of frustration she felt. Even writing this, I glared a bit at my sister when she pranced through the living room with a bowl of salsa. Those emotions are still so real and so palpable. So completely... unatractive. I reminisce to those long days clutching plastic dolls, and feel sorry for my young self. Earlier, I was laying in my bed thinking about the past. In so many ways I have changed the type of person I am, and the way that I respond to conflict. Yet, even today, I am still that little girl who doesn't like not having control.

College has been unbearably difficult on me for that reason. Everything I can do to get into college has been done. I have made the grades. I have sent in applications, and expanded resumes and transcripts. Now, I can't do anything. The only thing I can do is check the mail. And I do that with astonishing resiliency. Not only do I check the stack of mail my father places on my desk every day, I hike down to the mailbox "just to make sure". I'm easily frustrated and annoyed these days. I want to just know. I want to be told whether Barbie will be going to prom or dress shopping or hiking(god forbid). I want to be told so that I can know how I will react. Know which place I can play Barbie the boring, controlling way I play Barbies.

Here I am, thirteen years older than my past self. But from the way I act, it could have been yesterday. I've simply replaced my Barbies with Colleges. Instead of Barbie, and Theresa and Mandy I have UT and Yale and Reed. These Barbies and bigger and scarier. Worst of all, these new barbies don't play the way I want them to play. I have to wait until they decide how they want to play. Its much harder to control Universities.

Ten Resolutions for 2010

1.finish the NOVEL! hopefully before May. and send it to an agent. and become a published author. Lofty I know, but hey, its worth a shot.

2.write a little bit every day... including blogging at least 4 times a week. real blogs, not cheap ones.

3. go to college.

4. work out twice a week. Monday/ Thursday: that can't be that hard right?

5. take more pictures. normally I really suck at taking pictures. but 2010. its my year. I need to take my pictures, and upload them here as a testament.

6. take more quiet time. I spend too much time hectic and not enough in thought. Maybe I can combine this and #4 by going on walks.

7. 1 book per week.

8. fill up all of the canvases in the art room

9. stop worrying so much.

10. Love.