open up a vein

March 1st

2010-03-01T17:00:00.000-08:00

the aforementioned video:

new blog, crazys!

2010-02-22T19:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-19T16:04:00.000-08:00

#teamluke is making my life so much better already.

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

Happy Birthday DAD!

2010-02-15T15:42:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-14T19:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-12T15:58:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-09T06:10:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-02-01T10:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-31T16:18:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-30T09:18:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-22T15:58:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-08T13:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-03T14:32:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-01T19:23:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-30T18:07:00.000-08:00

I'm frustrated right now....

Top Nine Books of 2009

9. When you are engulfed in flames- David Sedaris

8.The Architecture of Happiness- Alain d. Botton

7.The History of Tom Jones- Fielding

6. Blink- Malcolm Gladwell

5. The Third Angel- Alice Hoffman

4.A seperate Peace- John Knowles

3.Self-Editing for Fiction Writers- How to edit yourself into print

2.Killing Yourself to Live- Chuck Klosterman

1.The Road- Cormac McCarthy

2009-12-29T19:07:00.000-08:00

Today, I was skimming through old emails only to discover that I have another article due January 4th. I really need to get a planner for 2010.However, all the nice ones I like are much to expensive. And, I need a full page for every day because I'm just so busy.

My article is going to be about how the state of texas has ruined my christmas break by moving finals to after christmas. It seems like a nice mellow topic. well.. maybe.

I've been thinking a lot today about the absence of rest. The last time I can truly remember resting was last January. That means that I have spent almost all of 2009 in a constant state of motion. So, with all my "free" time. I thought it might be time for some top ten lists:

NINE FAVORITE SONGS of 2009:

9.Love Will Come Through- Travis

8.Comes and Goes in Waves- Greg Laswell

7.Stay- Sugarland

6.Dimmer- Bishop Allen

5.Various Kitchen Utensils- Skybox

4.Cannonball- Damien Rice

3.Cheerleader- Grizzly Bear

2.See Fernando- Jenny Lewis

1.Race You- Elizabeth & the Capulets

coming tomorrow.... books :)

The worst words....

2009-12-29T09:34:00.001-08:00

Nothing from texas

as the mail hits the table.

Christmas break

2009-12-20T10:27:00.000-08:00

Today is the first real day of Christmas Break.
Part of me is excited, but when I look at my looming to-do list for the next two weeks, I feel a bit overwhelmed. There are so many things to do and so little time to do them in. I really do feel like I'm missing out on having a "break" by the new switch of finals to after Christmas. I'm going to write a blog about that for the DMN tomorrow though, so hang tight.

The book sits on my desk. or in my backpack. I carry it around and I look at it. Last week, I did not edit chapter one like I was supposed to. Last week, I became overwhelmed and scared and worried by my own words. It was so much easier to write when I didn't have to think about other people reading it. Honestly, i'm terrified of ANYONE reading it. Even though I feel like it might be good, I'm still scared. I have to decide what that book is meant to be, and moreso what it is meant to DO. I have to decide how it will influence and adjust and compare.

Mostly, I have to write it. I have to rewrite it so that its quality literature. I have to rewrite until I cannot stand my words anymore. Really, I'm starting to understand why people hire editors. But, I'm poor. So, I'll self-edit. Wish me luck, because April 12th I'll (fingers crossed) be sending a finished edited manuscript to publishers)

LOOK AT THIS!!!!

2009-12-15T06:40:00.000-08:00

wow.

these are my feelings

2009-12-14T14:09:00.001-08:00

You can get so confused
that you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles cross weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or the waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for the wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

Today is the day

2009-12-12T12:07:00.000-08:00

that revision begins.

except that my room is kinda messy. and cluttered.

how am i supposed to revise a messy and cluttered novel in a messy and cluttered enviornment I ask?

I don't think I can, so I'll be cleaning out my room for a good deal of time. hooray winter cleaning

Bookcover

2009-12-07T17:14:00.000-08:00

thoughts?

tonight, in an effort to make myself happy from the very RUDE rejection letter YoungArts sent me, I created a cover for my book.

that's right... my book.

Letters

2009-12-05T18:49:00.000-08:00

Its really cold outside, and not just Texas cold. According to my computer, it is currently 41 degrees outside. But luckily, I am seated in front of the fire watching the UT/ Nebraska game. I am just sitting here freaking myself out about college. Well, not really college as much as money.

This is a big in the letter realm. First, I made some REALLY nice Christmas cards at craft day today. They are all really nice, and they all need letters written on the inside of them.

I need to send some letters to some dear friends of mine who have already run away to college. I miss them terribly, and they deserve letters of love.

But mostly, are the scary letters this week.

NFAA/youngarts supposedly sent out some letters on Wednesday that tell people if they are finalists or honorable mentions or just not. Even though I was not particularly thrilled about young arts when I applied, I would love to have my art appreciated at that level.

Second, according to an email forwarded to me by a dear friend of mine, Plan ii will be sending out the first round of admission notification letters this week..... so ..... scary.

So, Today I have extremely mixed relationships with letter.

Wednesday-Schmendsday

2009-12-02T16:13:00.000-08:00

today I added some more cards to my hand.

One day, I went to lunch with my father and he made me cry. In no way did he mean to. In no way was he trying to stress me out. He loves me, and I know that. He is trying to help. He is trying to make my life a little easier. He is trying to help me make the wisest decisions so that I can make good life decisions.

He told me a metaphor about cards. The cards are really colleges. Big scary stiff rude difficult cards. "Kelsey," he told me," you're holding two cards in your hand right now: University of Texas and community college"

and that is why I cried. In the middle of potbelly, I had a breakdown. Despite the hoards of people and the sandwich in front of me, I cried and wiped my nose of brown recycled napkins. I cursed saving the enviornment for its itchy paper, but mostly I cursed myself. I cursed myself for not having money to go to college and having no scholarships.

Honestly, I don't want to go anywhere else. All I want to do is Go to UT and be a longhorn. All I want is to go. But money is an issue. So, I got some more cards. SMU, Carelton College, REed College, Bennington College,MICA, and Yale. I have lots of cards now.

But honestly, I hate all of my other cards. I want to set my other cards on fire.

I submitted two applications today. and I hate both of them.

Effects of the end of November

2009-11-29T17:41:00.000-08:00

tomorrow is the last day of november, and honestly, i'm pretty darn sad to see it go.I've had a grand November. A November that has changed a lot of things for me. A November that has made me realize some of my dreams and goals. A November that has made me

A NOVELIST!!!!

What November has done:

-made me realize the passion I have for the University of Texas at Austin

-forced me to appreciate my macbook to the highest extent

-given me tendonitis in my left hand

-given me 147 pages of pure happiness

-forced me to pound out 51,245 words

-made me want more than anything to be an author

-taught me to write despite bad days.

-made me create one really wretchedly bad piece of art

-gave me a rebound piece to remind myself I don't suck

-made me really, honestly proud of something

-at the same time made me incredibly embarassed about said something.

-taught me that sometimes, all creativity needs is a change in scenery.

-brought me the first baby to ever like me more than my sister

-taught me that sometimes, its better to let Whole Foods cater some of Thanksgiving and actually enjoy your time

-brought me to the threshold of creativity and forced me to push through it.

but most of all....

November gave me the first draft of my novel. The first draft of my baby.

Now, I enter the two week no touch-all think portion of the novel writing world. It's hard already. I miss my novel.

my. novel.

wow.

Sonnet #2

2009-11-24T16:32:00.000-08:00

I sit in front of the screen and I think

How is it that i will kill off this one ?

These few last words may push me to the brink,

Isn't writing supposed to be just fun?

I'm having to face my characters now,

the ones i birthed and hold so near,

for now it is their turn to take a bow.

the things i planned for them are so severe

My favorite one will be the first to go.

But the killing part is just so tragic,

when saying my goodbyes to those i know.

If only i could just use some magic.

Procrastinating my climax is death,

it is leaving me a bit out of breath

One day.....

2009-11-21T08:24:00.000-08:00

....this college thing will stop being stupid

....i will learn how to read a freaking website and stop making stupid mistakes

....a scholarship coorporation will actually give me some money

....i will step foot on a college campus and not have to go home

....i will stop having to miss him. . . all the time

....my friends will not have parents who treat me better than them

....i will finish this novel.

....i will have a wedding good enough to get on www.oncewed.com

....i will have good fashion

....i will probably move to a place where good fashion costs less

....i will be able to live on my own

....i will be interviewed on Ellen

....i will actually be a representative for the faith i claim

....i will begin to believe in myself

....i will exhibit in a real art gallery, with real artists.

....i will get out of Flower Mound and never look back.

....i will drive my car so far into west texas and spend the day just looking around and being artsy

....i will drive to Marfa.

....i will have just enough money not to stress about it.

.... i will know how the hell i'm going to pay for college.

luckily, tomorrow I'm headed to San Francisco. a much needed break

Learning to Walk

2009-10-28T12:54:00.000-07:00

I started walking to school in first grade. Every morning, my dad would wake up early and leash the dog and walk along with me. We lived about half a mile, and the walk was nothing less than enjoyable. Given, when there were hazardous weather conditions we drove, but otherwise walking was nothing less than normal. My father walked with me until third grade, at which point I was allowed to go on my own. He pointed my sister and I in the right direction and simply let us commute alone.

I lived in suburbia. In a safe, clean neighborhood. I spent all of my years walking to and from Prairie Trail Elementary School. When I graduated to middle school, I never expected there to be a change of plans. The middle school was a bit less than a mile, and slightly uphill: as uphill as the Texas plains can be. So, because it was longer, I mostly rode my bike. Rain or shine, early or late I made my way to school with little parental involvement for a full decade of my life. I clearly remember fighting to reach the bike racks at my middle school early so as to be guaranteed a spot. I remember wedging my bicycle into the cool, metal groves and straining to lock it up without attaching another bike along with it.

Yesterday, I took the scenic route to my house in order to avoid extra traffic at the end of my forty-five minute driven commute home. Yesterday, I drove past Lamar Middle School. It wasn't, however, until I pulled into my driveway that I realized what had seemed amiss. The bicycle rack was empty. Suddenly, visual memories flooded me: the huge crowds of running motors surrounding the elementary school, the idle crossing guards, the chaperoned backpackers.

So, I did some research. Statistics show that in 1969, 41 percent of children either walked or biked to school according to the National Household Travel survey. By 2001, that percentage had dropped to 11.

Parents have begun to feel nervous. The publicity of the internet, and the overwhelming power of the media has dramatically influenced this generation of parents. The constant outpour of overpowering news specials and dramatic stories is causing fear. They are meant to cause fear. Yet, this fear-the nervousness parent's feel- is causing dramatic changes in changes in the social patterns of parenting. A recent psychological study from the University of California at Berkeley-spearheaded by Paula S. Fass-, proposes a hypothesis that by driving their children to school parents feel they are protecting them, and thus "It's a conformation that '[they] are a good parent'."

The reality, however, is that childhood obesity is rising at an alarming rate. According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, over the past three decades the childhood obesity rate has more than doubled for preschool children aged 2-5 years and adolescents aged 12-19 years, and it has more than tripled for children aged 6-11 years. The reality is that without a decent degree of independence, without the physical activity, our children are going to grow up to be completely dependent, fat adults.

This summer, I went on a world history and aesthetics tour of western Europe. I, and sixteen of my fellow classmates, covered 6 countries and 9 cities in 24 days. An average of 24 miles a day according to the flaky pedometer. 24 miles, by foot. We walked: and in that walking I found comfort, the familiar memories of childhood. They were long, strenuous days. We were hot, and frustrated and annoyed. Yet, we weren't protected. There were days when we hated each other. There was one adult for all sixteen of us. At any moment, one of us could have been pushed into a van and driven to Eastern Europe to become someone's second wife. (We made the mistake of watching "Taken" on the plane ride over). Yet, our parents and our teacher, trusted us to remain responsible: trusted us to stay with the group.

The walking set off a stream of events. The independence associated with that short walk to school every day helps to form the character traits needed for leadership in adults. So maybe, just maybe, this generation of parents needs to accept the nervousness that will occur when their babies leave that first day. Maybe, that difficulty and emotional strain is necessary to help today's children grow into the best adults they can be. Maybe, its time we give our children the physical activity they need to remain healthy. Maybe we should just:

Let. them. walk.

Attention Whore!

2009-10-24T19:52:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, Facebook changed the layout of the news feed it displays to members. The only obvious difference is that now there are two news feeds. The first is labeled "live feed" and it displays in real time all of the information your 600+ "friends" are posting right now. The second-and the only real change to the Facebook universe-is labeled "news feed". Now the difference, is subtle and, quite honestly, it took me a fair amount of time to realize what the difference between to two was.

But when I realized, well, I understood why 23 of my facebook friends had joined a group against it already. You see, the change allows something that should be an exciting addition. However, the change limits our publicity. In the "news feed", the magical facebook decides who your favorite "friends" are and displays only their postings. Crap. This means that no longer do all of my displays do not get sent to ALL of my friends. This means that, in theory, my "friends" could choose to only observe their news feed, and thus they would never see the meaningless status updates I was posting. This means that only people facebook decides care about me will be able see me.

We really are attention whores. We post statuses on Twitter every fifteen minutes with our location and what we're up to. We reply to facebook posts, and take quizes no one cares about. We blog to our three or four continual readers. We have tumblrs, and flickrs, and plenty of social networking systems under our belts. Sure, myspace is on the downfall, but that hasn't stopped us from acquiring four other systems to let the world know our every move. We need to be noticed and adored and looked in the face and told "you exist". That's why the girls in front of me at movies are invariably texting; their blue light filling the theatre and averting my attention. They too, need to be continually reaffirmed of their importance.

See, I'm doing it right now. I'm blogging, and the blogosphere revolves entirely around attention. I could say that I'm writing for my own enjoyment. Which, partially, I am. But reality screams that were I only writing for my own happiness I would do so in a Word document, or on some tattered deadened tree. I wouldn't beg for comments, or desire a beaucoup of readers. Yet, I'm picking my words for you, dear reader, in the hope that you will read my tiresome rant, and look me dead in the eye and say "you are real".

Confession: I am an attention whore.

bealonghorn.com

2009-10-19T15:42:00.000-07:00

The University of Texas at Austin

is my dream school. I love the campus. I love the Plan II program. I love Austin, and I love being on campus. I love seeing the tower lit up at night. I love going to football games and chanting along with 80,000 fellow fans.

Last week, I took the plunge. On Monday, I submitted my online application. On Wednesday, I sent in the most precious package in the world to Austin. I sent in my resume, and my portfolio, and a letter of recommendation. Today, I sent in my housing and honors application.

And now its over.

The countless hours, and retyped words I spent on that application are gone. The reformating, redesigning, and reorganizing I spent hours on to make that application the absolute best representation of my self I could, are all gone. The big gold paper clip I combined all of myself with, is gone.

Everything. Gone.

And now comes the scary part. I've done everything within my power, and now my control is taken away. I can no longer switch the sentence orders in my essays. I can no longer add activities to my resume. I can no longer control my application. My application is now controlled by the Office of Admissions. My application, and my admissions decision. I should be nervous, and worried, and impatient. Now, while it is impossible to deny that all of those feelings are incredibly present, I can honestly say they are not my greatest emotion.

Relief.

So, now... we wait. One application down, three to go.

Now and Not Now.

2009-10-12T05:54:00.000-07:00

Totem 14"40"5"

Last year in AP 3-D we were required to create a totem. There were no other requirements, simply, that we must create something "totemlike". So I created this. A tall ,well-crafted, design oriented perspective on a totem pole. I honestly believe it to be one of my better pieces, but until recently it held no meaning to me. It was just that.... a totem of nothing

This weekend, my totem acquired meaning. My totem is high school. This piece is created of four parts: the four years of high school. Some are bigger (better) than others, and some are differently shaped than others, but together they form my high school career.

You see, I realized that we are always building a totem. Many totems really. Relationship totems, friendship totems, school totems, work totems. Totems are always surrounding us, totems are always a huge part of our existence. This weekend, I realized why senior year is so difficult. Why, even though my classes are more simplistic and my grades are hight, I feel such an elevated level of stress. I have too many totems.

My father told me last week that senior year is a time of "now and not now". That this year, instead of being able to focus solely on matters today, we are forced to focus not only now, but on not now. We are focused on what we are doing today and tomorrow , and also what we will be doing in 8 months. We are submitting college applications, we are creating resumes and portfolios. We are designing what we hope the rest of our lives will be. Yet, at the same time we must continue to focus on the now. We must continue to notice and perform our daily activities and routines. This year is realistically easier than last year. I am better at managing my time. I'm better at dealing with the AP course load. I'm better at building my high school totem pole than I was last year. The problem lies in the fact that this year we must build two totems. While we finish and polish and sand off our high school totem, we must begin doing preparatory sketches for our next totem. Whether that totem be set in college, or the work field, or an internship it has to be prepared for. We have to take time out of our already hectic nows to deal with our not nows.

I spent this entire weekend in Austin. I spent this entire weekend at the school of my dreams. I went to class with friends in the major I want, and I ate in the cafeteria students eat in. This weekend, I might as well have been a student at the University of Texas at Austin, and it broke my heart to remember that that reality is still "not now". I'm desperate, pining really, to be there. I'm not sure that I have Senior Swine Flu, because I really am happy here, but all of this planning for the next totem pole is making me incredibly antsy to start building. My applications are almost done, My sketches almost finished. Now, the only thing left is to submit them to people I don't know who will decide which totem I will be building for the next four years of my life. Its a scary reality that in a few months I will know where my totem will be built and with what.

Scary, but exciting.

Autumn Fallin'

2009-09-28T08:42:00.000-07:00

Today feels like fall in the Flowerplex. The air is crisp, and the acorns across the street from my house are falling rapidly through it. Even though it will probably be warm again next week, I'm enjoying my day off in the beautiful weather.

Lately we've all been stressing over college. Stressing about whether of not we'll get it. Stressing about whether our best will be good enough.

I think I may go back to the Farmer's Market tomorrow and get some strawberries to help me relax. Listening to the new Jaymay cd, I really do wish that with "autumn fallin" there was someone who "knew more than I do". Someone who could tell me where my life was going, how it was going to get there, and what i should do to aide it.

Instead, I'll eat fruit.

"If I knock on your door would you let me in?

Do you know any more than I do?"

-Autumn Fallin' :Jaymay

New blog, crazys!

2009-09-24T16:35:00.000-07:00

"Art never improves, but... the material of art is never quite the same. "

-T.S. Eliot

A majority of my life has been spent in the blog

osphere.I began my

first blog in the seventh grade, and have been semi-consistently blogging ever since. However, I've always spent my blogging days sporatically and disjointed.

This is senior year.

This is the year to determine what material the rest of my life

will be made of. The year to make decisions and to pick our material. This is a year for creativity. Hence, the new blog. The new venue is a necessary and important part of this revitalization. An important step to this change.

This is art year.

When I began this year I dreaded my design class. After spending all junior year building sculptures the thought of picking back up the paintbrush, or pen scared me. But I'm loving it. For the first time in a while I'm enjoying art. So, Hooray chamb-chamb! I've converted.