“Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” -Pablo Picasso

I love art. I grew up with an artist as a mother. She made watercolors and oil paintings and carved her own stamps to make floorcloths and sold things at art fairs. Later, as I got older, she bought a few kilns and made tiles. She actually tiled my grandparent's entire kitchen--It's beautiful. Here's a table she made:

 I wish the color was better in this photo, but alas. You'd think having such a talented mother, doodling and drawing and art would come naturally to me.

But that is not the case.

I can't draw worth crap. I inherited almost nothing. The problem is, I'm so visual that it would make sense because when I write, I picture scenes like they're from films--which in turn makes my writing a little heavy-handed and describing actions, expressions, and movements--but that's beside the point. I CAN'T DRAW. I can't even doodle well. I'm always trying to think of things to doodle in class because I'd get tired of writing, but when I failed or got tired of making swirls and stars, I'd go back to writing. That was my doodling. But back in the day, doodling wasn't art. I was taught art is in museums and on canvas, but never on the street or the margins of notebooks.

Until I discovered Banksy. Freshman year at IU at Urban Outfitters, I found a compilation of Banksy street art in a book. I was floored. I was hooked. I think growing up helped too--seeing more of the world and growing up so that you see it differently, you realize art is all around you, in books, in streets, on skin, in hair, on jewelry, in museums, in yards, in my mother's studio-it's all art, created by someone to cause an emotion, whether it's happiness or sadness or one of annoyance because those street kids fucked up the parking garage walls again. I'm trying to get better at art and because I can't create 3-dimensional objects with shading and perspective, even if I logically understand it in my head, I searched for what the world of artistic  doodlers were doing and found this article today:

"42 great examples of doodle art"
(http://www.creativebloq.com/illustration/doodle-art-912775) from creativebloq.com

So interesting! And again, I find myself wishing I could draw. For now though, I'm content at appreciating and doing my own little copies as practice until I can doodle as well as the masters.



If you want to see more Banksy, here:

"BANKSY WAS HERE: The invisible man of graffiti art."
BY LAUREN COLLINS MAY 14, 2007
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/05/14/070514fa_fact_collins

http://www.banksyny.com/

http://banksystreetart.tumblr.com/

Movie poster of the day:

STOKED, to say the least.

Song of the day: "Flaws" by Bastille. Here's a gorgeous acoustic version.

Weather of the Day: SHIT. Indiana November approaches.

Read more

Sometimes I get really disheartened...but I'll never quit.

I found an article: "How to Create a YA Phenomenon, in Nine Easy Steps" by Amanda Dobbins.
(http://www.vulture.com/2013/10/how-to-create-a-teen-phenomenon.html?mid=twitter_vulture) I read YA because I write YA. Sue me. Then go read your dull, "classic" novel and get back to me about how incredibly not fun it was.

I've been writing my whole life. People say that all the time and I've said that before on this very blog. But when I say I write all the time, I mean constantly, consistently, my stories are tickling the back of my brain, shattering my focus, interrupting other things. Last night, I had a thought and and I'm always worried I'll forget these grand, majestic, intelligent thoughts and so I shouted out of the shower to my boyfriend down the hall--but of course he didn't hear me. Normal people would carry on with their warm shower, telling themselves they'd remember, and if they forgot, it apparently wasn't important, or maybe go so far as to repeat it to themselves...

I'm not normal people, apparently.

I jumped out of the shower, dripping wet, face wash beads still gritty on my palm, wrapped a towel around myself, and ran out into the FREEZING COLD APARTMENT. I had not expected the apartment to be SO DAMN COLD. But there I was, shivering and jumping up and down in the doorway to the living room, our patio door blinds slit open to the night--I'm sure there were students walking out there or at the very least, our Asian neighbors out for smoke breaks. But I stood there and I made sure he jotted down my idea on a piece of paper before darting back into my haven of warmth. I'm pretty sure he was still laughing when I returned in my PJs.

Sometimes I get really disheartened. I think, "oh, I'll never be like those published authors, I'll never finish a book, no one wants to read this shit." But "this shit" consists of 100s of pages I've written, that I've put time and attention into. It can't be for nothing, it just can't. I've been writing since before I can remember. My mother helped me make entries for contests as young as kindergarten. I won awards in fourth grade and by seventh grade, I'd handwritten a 100-page book--granted there was no plot, no nothing, but it was there. I've never stopped. I filled up the backs of my notebooks in and out of class, I stayed in when my friends invited me out to write--and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the evenings. I'm sure my teachers of high school, if they ever remember me, they'll remember that I sat and I wrote and I didn't pay attention. I have most of those notebooks still, sitting in crates like my own personal library on my own personal history. I just wish I'd been more organized about my creative sprees because nothing is organized.

I keep writing because I could never stop. That's never been an option. It's not just a hobby, it's something present in my everyday life, whenever I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing--and often during that too--I'm thinking about writing. It's this feeling that bubbles beneath the surface, of creation and imagination and a hint of magic--the feeling I get when I read Harry Potter or Narnia novels, and any of the other books that first inspired me. I just hope it's not all for nothing. I hope I finish something. And I hope it's good. I hope I can be proud of it. I hope others like it. And if they don't, I hope I like it enough not to care.

And I tell myself there's no rush, but I see all these authors who are young writing for young people getting published and getting movie deals... I want to be that! And so do thousands of other people. Here comes the disheartening feeling, lashing through my good vibes. Great. Awesome. Moving on.

The best I can do is keep going--ending will turn up and the pieces will fill in, and someday, I'll have what they call a complete-looking novel.

Band of the Day: Bastille (I'm obsessed)

Tweet of the Day: Banter, banter. Love napnapnaps!

Book I can't have yet of the Day: Allegiant!! I want to read it soooo bad. Alas.

Book I finished of the Day: Brom's The Child Thief

It was so good--a dark, twisted, a dark, twisted, gory, mythological, f-word-heavy retelling of Peter Pan with fantastical art, beats from legend and myth, and plenty of shocking moments due to gore+children+zombie pirates+cursing... I recommend, though it's long and my interest wavered in the middle part. But I liked it.

Quote(s) of the Day: 

“If you don't learn to laugh at life it'll surely kill you, that I know.” ― Brom, The Child Thief

“Don't let them win. Don't let them beat you. Don't let them steal your magic.” ― Brom, The Child Thief

“And Peter laughed, and when he did, all the Devils grinned, because Peter's laugh was a most contagious thing.” ― Brom, The Child Thief (The Devils are the Lost Boys, and this line is repeated throughout, that his laugh was a most contagious thing. I love it.)

To learn more: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6308379-the-child-thief

Have a stupendous day!

Read more

Part of where I'm going, is knowing where I'm coming from...

I'm not generally a lonely person. I get lonely, as most humans do, but I'm not lonely. I however, do enjoy my alone time. I moved in with my boyfriend Bogey (obviously not his real name guys...though that would be funny), and figuring out how to go form long distance (an hour away from each other, not bad) to sharing most of our entire days together was certainly an adjustment I had to go through. Bogey is in med school, so his activities include studying and TV and being social. He doesn't read like I do (not that he doesn't enjoy it), he doesn't write or spend time doing crafts for hours like I can (though he is pretty crafty when he puts his mind to it). It was hard. I can entertain myself for LITERALLY hours, writing, readings, messing around with old notebooks and journals, the Internet, obviously, Tumblr, making playlists, crafting and collage-ing... But he's just not like that as much. I would feel bad when he was looking for something to do meanwhile I had too much to do. He would of course tell me it was stupid to feel bad that he was short on hobbies, but I honestly did! And of course, during the first few months, we spent every minute together, like we were catching up on time form the last two years when he's lived in Bloomington when we weren't at work or school. I went through a crisis realizing that I wasn't writing anymore--that sort of relates to how time- and energy-consuming my internship was over the summer--but I didn't know how to find balance.

But now I have.

 I think the two biggest key components for me were 1. Getting a job I liked that didn't drain my soul of the energy to create and thrive and 2. Getting comfortable enough with living with another human being. I had to realize that Bogey wasn't going anywhere, we are both in this apartment and it's going to stay that way, us together, and getting comfortable enough to say, "no, Bogues. I am going to go over here and cut shit out of magazines and collage for a bit while listening to the entire Phildel Youtube playlist because that's what I do and that's what I want to do now." When you move in with someone, you have to unveil all those quirks about yourself. It's like the early stages of a relationship again, like when you both admitted you're normal human beings with flatulence after you eat Mexican food. He knows I collage--I used to collage the walls of my room with magazine cutouts--but he hadn't seen the scrapbooks I've filled. He knows I write and fill up notebooks, but he hadn't really seen inside the two crates of notebooks I've been carting around for years and he hadn't been there when I woke up in the middle of the night with an idea and gone stumbling around in the dark for a bit of paper and a pen (I've written an idea on my hand before in the dark so I wouldn't forget it. Then I slept on my hand. Bet you know how that ended.)

Either way, moving in with a significant other is a HUGE step. I come from a fairly old-fashioned family and when Bogey asked me, I thought of my grandma and what she would think. Luckily I have a beautiful, amazing older cousin who took the dive first. (Thank you cousin!) But it's not about what others think, if they say you should or shouldn't, ultimately, like everything else, moving in is something you have to decide with yourself. And we do it to see (hopefully) if that significant other might be a forever person. It makes you re-evaluate what is private and what isn't. And it's just another step closer to adulthood. Lately, every new thing that happens makes me think of my parents, and sometimes even my grandparents--they were kids once too, they went through this too, they very well might have felt exactly like me. I find that fascinating. I've always been interested in my roots. Maybe it's because I feel like if I know where I came from, I can know where I'm going. (Yes, that is a Gavin DeGraw song quote. Guess what the new title is changing to from: "Alone together--Living with someone, but making room for ME time." That sounded like an awful self-help book anyways.)

I'm happy with my life. And I'm happy with my life with Bogey. Sometimes it's just a good idea to take the dive and see what happens--unless it's off a bridge, even if your friends are doing it too.

Read more

I GOT STYLE, letmetellyouwhat, and other thoughts on grown-up fashion

My goodness. This also sums up my life SO well. It's so good to know that though we are all entering into this sort of quarter-life crisis where, for the first time, we don't quite get the younger generation, the Internet understands and brings us all together. "29 Underrated Things About Being in your Twenties." (http://www.buzzfeed.com/jessicamisener/29-underrated-things-about-being-in-your-late-twenties) This article relates to my last few posts and today, I want to address another change I've noticed in my life.

My style.

This morning, while getting dressed, I had to make a decision: Do I dress like an "adult" that my co-workers would approve of, meaning dressing safe, or so I go all out--dress, tights, little wild-colored belt, heels... because today, I'm leading a meeting on my own and I, though I am ashamed to admit it, what to be taken seriously.

Who'd have ever thought?

I think my sense of style has actually, surprisingly taken off since starting my adult job. I have to where business casual, meaning dressing nice. I was never one to wear yoga pants to class honestly--mostly because of the jobs I held and amount of time I spent on campus at any one time (like all day most times) and the fact that I don't have a car, so I biked and walked to school. Year round. Man. I don't miss that for one second! I know, I know, save the environment, you should be biking to work because you live downtown and it's just on the other side of downtown... but it's Indiana, it's cold, it rains when it's cold, and you know what, I've been car-less since 2008. It's my turn to drive, people!

It's just funny how your style can change. We hung out with the skater kids in middle school. I wore Vans and Etnies even though I didn't skate--and Jesus I still miss those Etnies. It was like a pillow around my feet all day erryday. Then I moved to Chucks. My main group of friends in high school were not like me at all. They loved rap, for starters. I hated rap. But I listened to it to fit in. They didn't read, they liked to party a lot, they didn't get my staying in and writing... we were just different. But lack of other people for a long time kept me with them. When I met Amanders in 9th grade, we had some rocky moments, but she is my best friends still today (another thing the article/list mentions is how you weed out the hanger-on-ers to find your true friends). Amanders (not her real name, guys, come on) rocked chucks, mismatched socks, and wore basically whateverthefuck she wanted. She was the total opposite of me and everything I wanted to be. She would always pick out outfits that were daring and crazy, but I'd be too scared to wear them.

That's changed now, of course

I have my own style. But what leaves a part of me a little sad is that I've left the chucks behind for flats and heels and cute boots. My ripped flared jeans for khakis. I wear dresses and tights, and in high school, you couldn't catch me dead in a dress unless I was at a dance or something. There are no Crayola colored streaks in my hair, my lip ring has been gone since 2011, and I coordinate my jewelry.

The inner 16-year-old in me can't decide if she's impressed or disgusted.

I am a bit backwards in that I want tattoos now when I haven't even remotely, not the slightest inkling of a wish, wanted tattoos for the first 23 years of my life. Now I do. I always get into tihngs later than my peers. Sigh.

So now I pass my forgotten chucks, left in the hallways unworn for weeks with a sigh of sadness and nostalgia, slide my feet into my newest flats, put on my tailored blazer, and head to work. It's funny because my mother would approve. And I'm still struggling to accept that that is okay. I think that I'm afraid of when I have children and them looking at me and calling my skinny jeans "mom jeans" or making fun of my v-necks or my chucks or some other random article of clothing I can't let go of. I guess I hope to stay a fashionable mom.I think fashion has changed a lot since our parents were our age--so many more things are acceptable and "in." In fact, mom jeans in certain circles ARE in. I guess I'll just try to remember that any time I start worrying if my clothes are cool enough, remember their opinions don't matter because they'r emy kids, pull on my skinnies and chucks and 80s-style Raybans carry on, telling them they just don't know what's cool.

Read more

My quarter-life crisis explained by this amazing article:

      Whilst perusing the Interwebs, I found this article on hellogiggles.com: "Hey 90s Kid, You're Old: Coping with the new Generation Gap." Holy crap this is just what I need!
http://hellogiggles.com/hey-90s-kids-youre-old-coping-with-the-new-generation-gap by TARYN PARRISH
      Because on one hand, I graduated college a little later than usual, making me one of the oldest in my friend group. I also have a lot of friends a little older--I graduated in 2007 from high school and many of them graduated in '06 and '05. So I'm used to being slightly older and slightly younger. Obviously we can all relate to the same things--that's why we're friends. We like and hate similar things. But entering the workforce, all I hear is YOU'RE SO YOUNG and OMG DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT A FLOPPY DISC IS? No, seriously, I was asked that at my internship over the summer by a girl only 2 years older than me. And I would like to respond with YES, I DO. I IN FACT STILL OWN SOME. BOOYAH. But seriously! People will point out how young you are every two minutes if they're 5 or more years older than you, meanwhile you are starting to realize you are getting old. I'm going through a crisis AND YOU AREN'T HELPING. Of course I take it as a compliment at first. Until you mention it every time I timestamp something with, "Oh, I was 16 when that CD came out" or "Yeah, I wasn't allowed to watch that movie when it came out because I was too young" or "my first CD was 98 Degrees."
      But the people I'm around, including a 16-year-old brother, are often a generation behind me, whether the internet defines kids born in the mid-to late-90s as millenials or not (they aren't, if you're calling late 80s-early 90s millenials). I can't relate to my brother any more than he can relate to me. Thank god, at least he's watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on his own. I can't describe how I'm feeling, but it's uncomfortable. I'm too young for one generation and too old for another. So maybe I'll just stick to my friends. At least they understand me when I say Hocus Pocus scared me as a kid and know all the words to "I'll Make a Man out of You" from Mulan.

Read more

I'm becoming my mother

Shit. Right? That's my first reaction. There's that cliche in existence that we all become our parents eventually, whether we want to or not. Of course, our teenage selves shake our fists at such a notion. "I'll never be my parents" I always said--of course, one of them is a selfish, abusive alcoholic so I've steered clear of that fate.
But my mother? I already look like her--dark hair, dark eyes, and other hints here and there, though we've determined I inherited my father's straightass nose. I already sound like her too, sometimes I laugh and it's my mother's voice coming from my mouth, not my own.
And please, don't misunderstand me. I love my mother. When she needs to vent, though I hate it, I will sit on the phone with her for hours and let her vent at me. I have wiped my mother's tears, held her hand through hardships, given her money when she was between teaching paychecks, just like she's done for me. My mother is one of the strongest women that I know. She has done all she can to keep us together through the shit storm that is my father.
But... I don't want to be her. I also fear if she ever sees this. The last thing I'd ever want to do is break my mother's heart. But I don't want to be her. Don't we all dive into life trying to escape our parent's mistakes? Promising to fix them, to be better because of them. Sometimes it doesn't happen--like with my younger brother now. But I don't want to marry someone who treats me like my father treated her (check that one off, because it would never happen, though I did date someone like my father and got pretty wrecked during the exit and blah blah I'm a better person now because of it blah). I don't want to hate some many things about my body as it ages. I don't want to raise children to turn out like my brothers have--disrespectful, self-conscious, selfish, rude, disobedient, self-harming... These things are not all her fault. Of course they aren't. My mother had loved us more than we'll ever know--and a lot of it is my father, of course, and his influence.
This got super serious and dark pretty fast, let's lighten up.
I also have a mother who had worn turtlenecks her whole life. I know, I know, they're back in. But the cotton ones reminds me of elementary school, ones with little Christmas trees on them or something. They always made me feel like I was choking. And then, of course, the 2000s came along and they were SO not in. It's certainly a generational thing.
My mother had always risen early, enjoyed way too many cups of coffee, etc. I used to think HOW DO YOU DRINK SO MUCH COFFEE?? (I still do, sometimes). And until this year, I did not enjoy rising early. I did not enjoy getting up before 8 am. Back as a freshmen in college, I didn't get up before 11 am. Jesus Christ I almost just had a heart attack looking at that. I've been at work since 7 am and it's not even 11 yet!
Basically, I look as my mom, I hear her commanding "mom-voice" I look at her clothes, her analogies she makes, the things she enjoys, how little time she has to herself with a 16-year-old kid still living with her at 52 and I can see it all coming on. I enjoy cooking as my evening activity. I like when my boyfriend and I match when we go to weddings. I RUN. I like my coffee in the morning and getting up early doesn't bother me in the slightest. I wear clothes my mother approves of. I no longer dream about dying my hair bright crayola-crayon colors. I admonish my younger brother and he actually sort of listens! Now, I still hate turtlenecks and I still rock out to Blink 182, Simple Plan, and Linkin Park when they're on the radio, remembering my punk-ier days, but it's in the past. I'm never getting that stuff back. And I think it's kind of STAGGERING, this realization that I'm becoming like my mother, an adult in my own right. We cut my hair last week and it even resembles my mother's now.
These thoughts make me want tattoos and to dye my hair and crazy color still, because I certainly have a streak of rebellion. And I hope it never leaves. I love my mother. But I will try and accept this growing older thing, accept the wrinkles and sagging skin and I will marry a good person she can be proud of. All I really want is to make her proud, in the end. And you know, it's from her I get my strength, it really is. So maybe turning into my mother wouldn't be such a bad thing.
As long as I don't have to wear turtlenecks.

Read more

Here we go again

This was supposed to be a thing I did, an account of my experiences looking for jobs after graduating college. I failed. But I have a job! It's an 18-month contract at Lilly, a pharmaceutical company. I'm a new contract technical writer for them, meaning I was hired by an outside company and will be paid by them for my work here--work study on a larger scale, basically. And though the work is boring, the hours, the people, and the food are amazing.

So I got lucky. I know a lot of my friends are struggling to find permanent positions, I know a lot of them worked hard to get their positions--I got lucky in the fact that a recruiter found my resume online and contacted me with this job and I got it, easy peasy. I know people are happy for me, which is cool, because I've had a lot of trough breaks over the years, and I know that I went back to an event for the lit mag I ran to see how the new staff is doing and the faculty adviser/former professor of mine told me he basically expected me to still be jobless. That'll happen, I guess. If you're an asshole.

Point being--wait, there is no point. I'M A MOTHERFUCKING WORKING WOMAN NOW BITCHES. And now that I have a set schedule and internet access and a cool computer with me at all time, I will be blogging. And if I don't, I will get in trouble with myself. Like no Otis Spunkmeyer cookies for a week or something (and if you think that's not good enough, you obviously haven't had one of their cookies fresh and hot). These are topics I will be covering:

• Life
• how my life is changing
• the quarter life crisis I'm currently in
• why it's sad I don't have a smart phone yet
• friends
• family
• advice
• shit I like (movies, books music, TV, coffee, more!)
• and all those good things.

So. If you're reading this, I promise to come back. And be more entertaining. I've been up since 6. give me a break.

Read more