Candidly Clyde

Gone

2012-01-26T17:09:00.002-05:00

There's just no time anymore.

There is no time for myself, no time to be myself. I'm a pawn; a piece of two organizations whose readers don't see or know of my involvement.

I have never been more frustrated ... with work, with people, with relationships, with promises and ideas ...

... with the lack of time I have.

Monday Scribbling

2012-01-23T08:46:00.000-05:00

D'oh!

I've run out of Monday Scribblings. I used to have a stockpile of them; in fact, back in July, I ended up scheduling posts through November. However, not having college classrooms to go to has left me without material; it was easy to find scribblings and musings and doodles on the desks and walls and sidewalks of campus.

So today, I leave you with a loveable dolt.

Location: on the outside wall of a bar on Main Street, Ames, Iowa

Exploring

2012-01-17T16:49:00.006-05:00

In small circles, I explore my new surroundings. I walk from my apartment, circle the Victorian home a few times. I stroll the streets around my new place of employment, gradually increasing my number of steps. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the circle widens and expands. It expands to stores, restaurants, stops, paths, parks. I see things I wish to experience, taste things that warm my chilled insides. I'm adjusting.

I spent a bit of time at my local Goodwill which, surprising for its small size, actually warranted a few finds. In the end, I purchased only two things--two black belts.

In Ames, I revisited the British food market. "The boyfriend liked the Marmite," I told the owner, who shuddered once he heard Hans had mixed the yeasty extract with peanut butter. "You should have seen his face when he first tried it, though."

I hadn't seen a model guillotine before, either.

Coke bottles, radios, ancient board games and forgotten toys ... the Cupcake Emporium was a vintage wonderland.

That's a dark chocolate raspberry cupcake, in case you're wondering.

And yet, there are many more places.

So many more.

Driving Music

2012-01-16T15:02:00.001-05:00

The radio in my car doesn’t work so well right now. For awhile, it was only static—a humming white noise that would make you shake your head in buzzing frustration. It disappeared the last time I drove into town, just up and vanished; no sound, no vibrations—just a cacophony of rioting airwaves.

The lack of sound disappointed me; on the drives to and from work, my car was—like my apartment—far too quiet. Just last week, however, I chanced it and pressed the sunflower-colored power button. I was surprised—music. Subtle, quiet … but there. Though I quickly discovered that the volume could be no louder than one-fourth its potential, I was satisfied.

You see, when I’m driving, when I’m on those long and lonely trips, I listen to music. I sing loudly and dominantly, afraid of no one.

Afraid of everything.

The beat of a Stabbing Westward song previously unheard by my ears pounds through my veins, my fingertips. I want to level the accelerator, propel myself up and over the hills. Rush through and blend with the natural beauty of a landscape forgotten and unchanged.

Florence and the Machine, Shakira, The Killers, Beirut. Vagabonds and devils, I sing them all, sing them proudly. Sing them obnoxiously, like I did the endless stream of Christmas carols just a few weeks ago. It was awkward driving, I’m sure, to pass me on the road and see me exaggerating the lyrics with contorted lips, bopping my head and mimicking “A Night at the Roxbury.”

Each song I listen to reminds me of something else—of someone else. There’s the crooning voice of James Taylor and the lyrics of “God Only Knows” that remind me of Brent, a friend who I once lusted after. There are the melodramatic creations of Muse, a band introduced to me by D.J. who, one summer, dueled with Brent for my attention. There are songs from my brother’s darker days, from my mother’s teenage years. Music from my childhood makes me weepy and nostalgic, though not as angrily sad as the tunes that remind me of my last relationship—a three-year courtship that did not end pleasantly or expectedly.

The songs remind me of everyone who isn’t with me, of everyone who still is. They are in my thoughts, my mind, my heart, my feelings, my memory. In fact, it is when I am driving that I think of them most often. My sudden recollections of memory remind me of two words that Ty—an old soul whose reclusiveness warrants surprising bits of wisdom—associates with driving: reflective and relaxing. Indeed, I may not have my best thoughts while propelling “the beast” through the Midwest, but I certainly have better ones.

Having songs to listen to is certainly better than resorting to the music inside my head, for it is far too unharmonious. Jumbled thoughts and racing ideas and should-I-do-this-es and I-need-to-that-s and I-can’t-do-this-this-is-too-much-es. I think and I ponder, meditate until, like the Grinch, my “puzzler is sore.” I realize how easy it is to think when you are alone, how easy it is to remember the past. I look around me, at the hills and fields, and believe that the land cultivates to the people’s thoughts. They don’t distract me from my own memories, and I am often reminded of how easily I have fallen in lust.

I count, aloud, how many interests I’ve had, discover that I’ve had sixteen. I have not loved all, nor have I even dated half, for the sixteen include the crushes of a five-year-old, as well as the grade-school of-course-I’ll-play-Mortal-Kombat-at-recess-with-you “love interests.” I am embarrassed at my ability to admire a former boss. My easy infatuation even allowed me to envision my fifth-grade teacher as a father figure. I did the same with my sixth-grade teacher, calling attention to myself; subconsciously, I knew I needed the guidance and support from two parents.

It amazes me how easily I can care for so many people. In the end, I wonder if anyone remembers me—even the strangers who, for a just moment, I passed by. Surely, the elderly couple at the mall—the one who always wore matching polos, including ones of a vivid canary-yellow—do not remember me. Do the people to whom I once offered a ride remember? Does the saleswoman at Target who I made laugh return home and tell her mother/sister/brother/husband/boyfriend/roommate/cat the same joke? Any of those people—the sweet couple, the busy sales clerk—may have been having a good day, a bad day. They may not remember my name, my business, my smile … but my face, still there, still remembered, may appear in one of their dreams as the face of a stranger.

All these things weave and worm through my brain as I drive, as I criss-cross the countryside. I don’t mind the sun sometimes, the images it shows. I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes. Cinnamon and sugary and softly spoken lies… I sing, I hum, I move. I drive. I reach for my CD case, grab a disc at random and surprise myself with melodies as I feed it into the reader. Coldplay, the soundtrack to Shrek 2, a Phil Collins mix for my brother, Shiny Toy Guns.

“Who does remember me?” I ask myself, happy that the music is not just in my head. “What do people think of me when they are driving? Do they think of me at all?” I go back to singing.

You never know just how you look through other people’s eyes.

Blinded by the White

2012-01-14T03:45:00.001-05:00

It’s snowing.

I don’t realize it for awhile; I just drive. My beams are on low, and I hardly notice the small specks that dance through the light and beyond my windshield. When there are no cars—for, unlike the other late nights, the road is not deserted—I flick my brights on.

There is white.

Sudden white.

Streaks.

Comets of snowflakes that fly fast fast fast toward me and then pass, pass me, pass my windshield. They fly out of the darkness, heavenly speeding and giving me the sensation that I am a part of a screensaver, an old default in which I sit, stationary and shrouded in darkness, while bursts of white heat soar in and out of my peripheral vision.

I think of the shivering girls I saw just twenty minutes earlier, the college students at the corner bus stop. Had their knightly, oversized-carriage rescued them from the eighteen-degree weather? By the time I reach my apartment, would the icy crystals be collecting beneath their three-inch heels and clinging to their too-short skirts?

I keep driving, inching forward, propelling myself and my mechanical horse ten more miles. Each vehicle I encounter is clouded with a golden veil of headlights and snowflakes.

I slide ever so gently off the highway and into Boone, my tires slipping an inch or two. I coast down the road, gliding. There is a buzz about the streetlights, a soft hum like the insects that swarm stadium lights at Friday-night football games. I stare at the cloud, admire its fuzz as I approach it. Snow is gently falling, falling, floating, falling, then sparkling, shiny and sparkling and glittering and I’m coming closer and closer and closer to the lightpracticallythere now I am and they are sparkling not alive shiny and...gone.

Onto my hood. Over my roof. Suffocating against my windows, they’re gone.

Another streetlight. Another stare-down. Floating, falling, sparkling, shiny, gone. The pattern repeats a block later, then two blocks after that, then another, and another … dozens of streetlights and gentle, delicate crystals.

My tires grind for traction as I turn onto 6th, its icy coating untouched. I see that, as usual, my neighbor’s light is on. It burns thickly, and I know that the orange of their lamps will be reflect through their window and ignite my room. I park my car in the narrow garage and prepare to enter the frigid air.

I breathe sharply when I step into the cold, the chilled air filing my lungs. Despite the wintry atmosphere, it is quiet, peaceful. The snow muffles my footsteps, and I leave footprints upon the aged bricks.

I am alone and outside, but not scared. Not scared like I have been the last two nights, when I inch past the garage and the side of the house, peering over my shoulder for anyone, anything. There is no howling wind on this night, only swirling flakes that blanket homes and streets and train tracks.

The steps groan and creek and heave as I crawl and creep upstairs to my little efficiency, my little place. A turn of the key, a turn of the handle, and I’m in. It’s warm. Warm, but reeking of the stiff new shower liner I hung up just before leaving.

I have just completed my first two weeks of work. I am unsure of what to think at this point, unsure of how I should feel or what I should be doing. I am lost and unprepared, confused and undisciplined in when I should eat, sleep, and speak to another human being. So, instead, I write. I turn on my computer and type, think and compose sentences and phrases and words that make me remember the snow, force me to remember my late-night drives home and the racing thoughts I have during them.

When I struggle, I lean over the window seat and peek between the blinds. I cup my hands to the glass and peer outside, stare at the white, the fragile, thin layer of white. It’s still snowing. Still falling, still gently falling, falling, floating.

Monday Scribbling

2012-01-09T02:13:00.000-05:00

Back in September, I hiked over to my hometown's high school to take some shots of the football game. It was Homecoming, and so the town was bedecked with flags and school colors. The driveway to the middle school/high school was coated with chalk names and "spirit paint."

Yes, in case you're wondering, my school was across the street from a cemetery.

Unlike last week's post, however, these arrows have no designated starting or ending point. They were just painted on the sidewalk.

Welcome to Ames

2012-01-07T12:14:00.002-05:00

I'm alive, truly, and I have much to say. Unfortunately, today is not the day for reciting tales of moving, for sharing my stresses and worries and wonders about my first real job. I have been here, in my first apartment--an upstairs efficiency in an 1898 Victorian home--for just over a week. Until yesterday, I was without Internet, and I found it difficult to check anything, to write anything or share information or respond to individuals when I could nab only a few minutes, a few seconds, between stories and pages and deadlines. So today, I share only some photos--some images of the town in which I now work. Most photos, honestly, are from a corner store--one on Main and Burnett--that housed Christmas trees and all of their decor. I have not been in it since the time of my interview, so I do not know what it now boasts.

The buildings are old, the streets are narrow. During the day, there is a reasonable amount of people hobbling the old streets, peering into windows of antique shops and hustling to coffee hours. There are Thai restaurants, Subways, bars, breweries, and heavenly chocolate stores with gelato. Both the library and the post office are nearby, and it is here--adjacent to luxury children's clothes and quilting supply stores and British food markets--that I work.

Monday Scribbling

2012-01-02T02:02:00.000-05:00

Earlier this fall (when I was still living in Iowa), I took a walk to the post office. The short jaunt was highlighted by the neighbors' chalked-out-track, as well as a praying mantis that happened to be hiking across the sidewalk.

I nearly stepped on the little guy, who was incredibly suspicious of my camera.

A Shot at Headshots

2011-12-27T00:10:00.000-05:00

Jon was the first friend that I ever made at Iowa Western. It was the first day of class, my first day of college. I had some time before I needed to leave campus, so I wandered to the library and sat myself down at one of the few computers available. At some point in time, I had a question--I do not remember if it was about flash drives or printers or logging on, but I had a question--so I turned to the man next to me.

Jon and I remained in touch for the next five years, but we only saw each other a couple of times until this past Thanksgiving, when he approached me. "I've been thinking of getting some new headshots," he told me, "And I wondered if you would like to do them."

Another appointment, another opportunity.

He was pleased with the results, especially since his only requirement was "One good photo."

I hope that he is able to continue building upon his acting career, continue building upon his film experience. He's an extremely creative, versatile individual who never fails to make one laugh.

I recently created a Facebook page to showcase my photos. In addition to this blog, I use it as a way to build my portfolio. It also makes marketing a bit easier, and it draws in individuals who would otherwise go without reading my words here. If you wish to "like" my Facebook page, feel free. However, there is no obligation, and I will not push my readers toward it.

In other words, I am more than honored to hold you as company in one place or the other. Yes, my blog and my Facebook page are linked; I share the photos there, the stories here. This way, those who are visually active can choose to skip my language, while those who prefer words can visit this site.

In the end, I am happy to I share my experiences with two entirely different cultures. These words, these images and the stories that I associate with them are for you--you, the ones who read and comment. The photos? Those are to show members of my hometown that there are things they may overlook--simplistic, humble places that do not fit their image of "scenic beauty."

Hell, I can't even define "beauty." I can't define it because it's everywhere; it's in the sunlight that delicately creeps across the carpet in the early hours of morning, it's in the curve of Han's shoulder. It's in the fragile, interwoven hands of elderly couples, the cracked, peeling paint of forgotten buildings. It's in animals and people, rocks and trees, water and air, in words, in photos, in people, in imaginations and recollections and life.

Monday Scribbling

2011-12-26T01:49:00.000-05:00

The crackle of leaves disrupted my feet and danced at a diagonal when trying to take these pictures. It was mid-November, so the trees were categorized by either NO leaves or YELLOW leaves. It made for a very picturesque campus, but also a very depressing realization--that in another couple of weeks, the sidewalks and trees and bushes would be forlorn and gray and cold.

The Stewart Center is one of those immensely large buildings on campus for which no one knows its exact purpose. There are a few classes held within its doors, and many liberal arts majors borrow books from the HSEE Library, which is housed inside. However, the many floors and subfloors of Stewart make for a semi-confusing, easy-to-get-lost-in-if-you're-an-underclassman building.

Luckily, however, Stewart also features a performing arts theater (whose outside wall is pictured above), a wonderful women's restroom (COUCHES!), a computer lab, a small art gallery and a mini mart (for those times you need a snack when hiking through this lengthy construction).

Kitschmas

2011-12-24T13:44:00.005-05:00

To balance out the gloom from my last post, here are some "Kitschmas" images that I have been compiling. I know that a lot of bloggers share things on Pinterest, promote others' ideas and offer Christmas sponsorships and giveaways. As many of you know, I am not interested in the latter. However, it is difficult not to "like" other pictures you see--other images that you find humorous, inspiring, memorable. That being said, I think that today, Christmas Eve Day, is an appropriate time to share the joy others have experienced--whether it be through tinsel trees or shiny wreaths, "ugly" sweaters or silk ornaments from the '70s.

Besides, nothing besides a strangely-concocted mouse ornament can distract me from the fears of my impending adulthood.

Photo Credits:
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

If you would like to experience a Christmas overload, visit Raindrops n Roses. The author blogs by theme, so you'll see groups of Christmas sweaters and Christmas cookies, Christmas presents and cats in Santa hats. It's festively distracting.

Fears

2011-12-24T12:44:00.004-05:00

Christmas this year is ... difficult.

It's always a stressful time a year, a time that we struggle over what to buy and who to buy it for, a time to panic over last minute gifts and DIY decorations. We both dread and look forward to holiday gatherings--family dinners that may or may not include tears from laughter ... or frustration.

I do enjoy my family, and I love Christmastime. This year, however, Christmas is a bit gloomy. The celebrations are marked by the absences of others; rather than gather around a table filled with Christmas delights, my mother and I will be in the living room, alone, watching T.V. and pretending that today is just another day, that our neighbors aren't hosting feasts, that we're not alone.

I'm also fearful. Monetarily, this year has been incredibly hard. My mother lost her job and, as a sufferer of multiple sclerosis, she has been unable to secure an available position. Because finances are so tight, we are "not" exchanging presents this year. I don't mind; it's not about the presents, or about the getting. It's not about the appearances of boxes. In fact, I think the purchasing of a gift solely for the reason that someone can "have something to open" is a ridiculous excuse to purchase a gift. It's not about sitting in a circle and making a show of opening a gift, one at a time, and fawning unnecessarily over an item that you, in fact, picked out.

To me, the art of gift giving is the abstract art of making others happy: of buying presents for the children of underprivileged families; of donating a dollar to a worthy charity; of baking cookies for your neighbor, of mailing ornaments to a stranger, of hugs and smiles and laughter and love and memories of being "there."

This is why I have bypassed the "not" giving a gift; I have decided to make for my mother a book--a book of memories and photos and words and thoughts. I want her to be happy, to read my thoughts and understand why I am so fearful.

To be straight, I accepted a job just last week. I had spent several months seeking employment. I was discouraged, desperate. I wanted publishing but settled for newspapers, an industry with which I am entirely too familiar. I start in just a few days, and it scares me. It scares me that I must be an adult, that I must transition from "house-girlfriend" to adult in a little over a week ... a week that includes two family Christmases.

I am scared of being alone. I have a few great fears, loneliness and abandonment being two of them. My heart is easily broken by the actions and words of others, and--no matter my location, Iowa or Indiana--I ache for people whom I am not with. When I first transferred to Purdue, my soul had been shattered by a long-term boyfriend who had ended our relationship just five days before Christmas. I was fresh, vulnerable, raw and empty. My mother helped me move into my dorm in early January, and she stayed with me for a few days. When I left her at the train station, I cried. I cried and cried and cried, watching the train sped up and curve north to Chicago, to Iowa.

I was alone.

I was alone at the University of Iowa, alone at the hotels at which my dad used to abandon me. I'm alone late at night, alone, save for my thoughts, which go unanswered and un-comforted. I hate being alone, and I dread the evenings when I will come home from work and open the door to my tiny-even-though-I-can-barely-afford-this-too efficiency and greet the darkness. No hugs from a loved one, no friendly words. No kisses, no laughter, no food, no welcoming bed. Good days or bad days, it doesn't matter ... there will be no one there to share my joy or sadness.

I am so utterly fearful; fearful of the benefits that I cannot buy into, fearful of the budget I cannot afford. Fearful that, like my mother, I will have to debate between purchasing food or gas ... or bills. Fearful that my relationships will deteriorate. Fearful that I will do what I always do when I am scared and alone--that I will curl, curl and crimp myself into the gray mold of depression that I've struggled with since high school.

I must be an adult soon. I must get up, put on clothes, put on a face--both a literal and figurative face--and drive to work. Drive and work, edit and design and talk and plan and think. In five days, I must be an adult. In four days, I must move to my efficiency, must swear at the mattress I take up the three-turn Victorian staircase. I must say goodbye to my family, goodbye to my uncle and brother and mother, to the ones who insist on helping, but dread abandoning. In three days, I must celebrate Christmas with my family, celebrate and smile and laugh. I must play cards with my uncles, trade swear words and smack as we banter our pegs up and down the cribbage board.

But today? Today I must wrap my "non-presents." I must wrap my homemade gifts, my homemade ornaments and photographs and books into boxes and brown paper. Simple, yes, but beautiful.

If only the same could be said for adulthood.

Goodbye Greenfield

2011-12-21T06:39:00.000-05:00

Today.

Today, like every other day, the sun will awaken. Its gaze will peek through the blinds, the blinds that block the drafty sliding glass door. It will creep across the carpet, crawl up the couch. It will reflect off the wall, glowing with a yellow fire that makes me believe that today, yes, today, will be okay.

Today is the last day that I will wake up within your walls. Today is the last day that I will wake in the darkness of morning, the last day I will silently creep through the hallway and to the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, the kitchen table at which I have my computer. It is the last morning I will argue with closet doors, complain that I have “no place of my own.”

True; I stayed beneath your roof—the one that rattles and shakes and shivers in the wind—for a number of nights. But those nights, when added together, are just a few months—a few months in which I watched the turn of leaves, the fall of snow.

Most of my time here was spent alone. With Hans at work, I spent many solitary hours delving into the online world, melting into social media and forcing conversations with individuals whom I had never met. I was lonely, depressed. I missed home, I missed school. I missed having fun. I missed being spontaneous. I missed having a bed to myself, a desk of my own.

It wasn’t ideal; I was without a dresser, without any sort of furniture. I had come to you as a refuge, a place to be when I abandoned an opportunity. I was not aware that, come Christmastime, I would have to leave your walls and pack my things once more. Pack my things and drive back, back to a state I thought I had momentarily left.

You were a cute little apartment, a functional living space with two bedrooms and a dishwasher (a novelty I have never had). You had a small deck, a space in which Hans and I sat a few times. Sat and watched cars, sunsets. Sat and ate dinner. Sat and watched the countless ducks waddle and quack across the parking lot, loudly flapping their way to a retention pond.

I cooked here. I experimented. I made meatballs and tomato soup. I made grilled cheese for the first time, concocted curry. I baked brownies and muffins, angrily threw away an entire batch of sugar cookie dough. I burned quesadillas, blackened toast. I made addictive white bean dip. I froze leftovers and created meals out of butter and rice, celery and ramen, bread crumbs and cheese.

I cried. I cried a lot. I cried about the accident. About the lack of a desk. About being lonely. About the placement of items. About not having a job. About not knowing when to do something that I didn’t know I had to do in the first place. Those lonely hours during the day were tormenting; the walls that kept me safe and warm were the same ones that constricted my heart.

I can’t say that I will miss you, apartment. I will not miss the lack of shelter for my poor car, the beaten-down and rusted-out Oldsmobile that miraculously carries me from one state to the next. I will not miss the smell of stale cigarettes in the hallway, the expensive coin laundry. I will not miss your lack of a full-length mirror. I will not miss the barking dog downstairs, or the baby next door, whose short, high-pitched cries led Hans to believe that it was a cat, not a child, who was screaming.

I will not miss you, not really.

However, you are located in a good town, a small city near a much larger one filled with opportunity. You did give Hans and me the chance to visit places and do things. You let us take a tour of a winery. You let us experience the childhood of James Whitcomb Riley. You let us explore local cuisine, and drew us to a small, but utterly delicious Chinese buffet. You let us watch movies from the library. You let us build a fort across your living space. You let us laugh and cry, argue and make up. You let us learn about each other, let us learn about our habits, our faults. You let us in, without judgment, and gave us the chance to cohabit, to live and love together.

I can’t say that I will miss you, but I can say that I will miss Hans.

This is his place, his apartment. That’s why there is a collection of specialty beers on the kitchen counter. That’s why there are turtles—plastic turtles, metal turtles, big turtles, small turtles—in each room. That’s why there is a statue—a bobblehead that evokes a teenage fascination with Austin Powers—next to last year’s Valentine’s Day gift. It’s our juxtaposition, really—the humor of one, the emotional fragileness of the other.

We are so very different, he and I. I’m sure you have noticed. You watch as I kiss him goodnight. It isn’t until three hours into his rejuvenating sleep that I join him in slumber. He, laid-back and easy-going; I, passionate and meticulous, a place and time for everything. He, forgiving and compromising; I, stubborn and temperamental. We are opposites. We are the sun and the moon, the hot and cold. How did we ever survive?

I will miss him, apartment. Miss the way he looks at me when he says goodbye in the morning. Miss the way he hugs me, holds me, each day when he returns from work. Miss the way he covers me when I am cold, comforts me when my cheeks are damp with sadness. I will miss expounding and formulating, planning and imagining. I will miss our swearing at the ducks, our ability to go out to eat because “it’s in the budget.” I will miss his ability to provide anything and everything—from solutions to simple problems, to the exact words that I may need to hear. I will miss the companionship, and I do not envy the long hours that he soon faces—the hours in which this apartment becomes too large, too empty for one person.

I must thank you again for letting me stay, apartment. Must thank you for letting us test ourselves. I regret that I must leave, regret that I must leave the one whom I call “my favorite.” Because, to tell the truth, he is my favorite. He’s my favorite caretaker when I am sick, my favorite counselor when I troubled. He is my favorite accountant, the banker I turn to when I need financial opinions. He is my favorite friend to whom I can tell secrets. He is a son, a brother, a nephew—and, because of his compassion and selflessness, he is my favorite family member. He is my favorite person; it does not matter if I am about to embark on my own journey to adulthood, for I will miss him.

I may soon have my own desk, may soon have a closet with which I don’t have to argue. I will have everything organized and alphabetized, shiny and dust-free. But my bed will be as empty as my apartment.

I can still cook, I can still experiment, I can still explore. … but it is no fun building a fort for one.

Octopus & Indianapolis

2011-12-20T12:02:00.006-05:00

Hans and I were able to have a "date night" in Indianapolis last week--a date that included a trip to the most delicious Asian buffet. We began our evening at Teppenyaki, a restaurant with Japanese-style food. I cannot began to explain to you the variety of delicious food items, for there were at least a dozen stations filled with steaming shrimp, chicken and stuffed crab shells.

Hans and I wandered the aisles, staring at each offered dish with ravenous curiosity. Plate after plate, we filled our palettes with small samples. Our gluttonous appetites kept us going back for more and more--for more mushrooms, for more shrimp, for more sushi.

A salad bar was one of the first stations, but I found myself intrigued with only the baby octopi. With an texture obsession, I placed two of them atop my stuffed crab shell. My lips were eager to taste them, to try them. Spicy or not, I wanted to chew their meat, feel the suckers rubbing my taste buds.

"Look what I found!" I exclaimed to Hans, pointing at the octopi.

His eyes widened with hunger. "Where did you find those?" He asked eagerly.

I pointed to the salad bar. "Over there. They have seafood salad, too," I said seductively, knowing very well that he would serve himself a mound of the sliced and diced crab meat.

Back at the table, I stared at the glass dividers, the makeshift walls between booths. Green and pink and purple lights reflected through the glass, illuminating etched leaves and branches and birds. "This is so delicious," I gushed to Hans, my mouth full of flavored salmon. "Thank you so much for taking me there. This is wonderful. I wish we had come here earlier so would have been able to come back."

He nodded, his mouth full of octopus. "It's a bit spicy," he warned me.

"It's okay," I waved him off. "I really, really just want to feel this," I said, my eyes with determination. "It will be the most texturally interesting thing I ever eat."

"Says the girl who hates onions and celery because they're not soft enough."

"You be quiet," I said lazily, forking a cephalopod into my mouth. I sighed, chewing. It was slightly rubbery, yes, a bit spicy, too, but wonderful. Delicious and full of texture and grit and salt and seawater and sauce.

"This is so good," I said again, repeating our dining mantra.

Indeed, Teppenyaki was absolutely delicious. It didn't matter that it was a buffet; it didn't matter that you could find green beans and mashed potatoes nestled between General Tso chicken and "Triple Threat" seafood pasta. It didn't matter that there was tiramisu or Jell-O. It was colorful, visually and tastefully vivid. Watermelon triangles were stacked just opposite of steamed broccoli and beef. A man, quiet in his work, avidly rolled sushi in a back corner while appreciative customers tipped him a dollar, or two, or three.

"Thank you again," I said, as we paid and started to exit. We paused for a moment by the water wheel, the trees sparkling with multi-colored Christmas lights.

"The wheel is off-balance," Hans noted, pointing at it. "Watch it." His eyes followed it's movement, his voice narrating its pattern. "See?" he said, as the wheel momentarily slowed before speeding up, faster and faster before, suddenly, it slowed again. "Fast, fast, slowing, sloowwwwwwing, fastfastfast." The pattern continued despite the constant flow of water spewing from the mouth of a fish statue.

"Huh," I dumbly responded, knowing I could not match the mechanical comments of Hans. Instead, I snapped a bokeh photo of the lights, one that I would jokingly announce to be "just a picture of some Venn diagrams." After immaturely pointing at the palm trees and noting the unfortunate presence of "just two nuts," we left, holding hands and laughing.

"Ready to see the lights?" Hans asked me, as he opened the car door for me.

"Yes!" I exclaimed giddily. "I'm excited! I'm still kind of upset that I didn't get to go with you to the City Market on the 8th."

"Well, I hope you have fun."

"Of course I will. I like lights. ...and shiny things in general."

The rest of the drive into downtown Indy was uneventful, save for the moment where I exploded in laughter.

"You didn't see that sign, did you?" I asked, giggling, my thumb pointing back over my shoulder.

"No, I didn't."

"I didn't think so, as you're driving." I sighed. "I wish I had gotten a picture of that." I laughed a bit more. "There was a sign back there, a really large banner, really, on a restaurant. It had 'HAPPY 32th ANNIVERSARY' printed on it! ...how do you even pronounce that?" I laughed. "That is a copy editor's nightmare."

"You and words."

"Hey..." I said, looking at him with a smile on my face. Hans glanced at me, smirking, his eyebrows raised. "...that's all I got," I said, laughing again. We rounded a corner, turned onto a street and there it was, there was Monument Circle, aglow with Christmas lights and candy canes.

"It's so pretty," I whispered to myself as Hans struggled to find a place to park. We drove in squares, in rectangles, for blocks and blocks until we parked at an intersection a ways from the Circle. Outside of the car, the air was brisk, windy. We struggled to stand upright, fought against the air to keep our fingers and toes warm. When we finally reached the Circle by foot, I became enraptured by the lights. Mesmerized, I looked upward. Upward and out, around and around. I twirled on my own feet, distracted by blinking Christmas trees and bell ringers and sparkling lights.

We walked up the steps of the Monument, each taking in the lights. We pulled cameras out of pockets and off of shoulders, capturing what we saw. I, jealous of his pictures, he, jealous of mine. I looked up, up and up and up. The cables whipped in the wind, breathed like an open-air tent.

I danced around the cables, swirled around them and smiled at the Capitol Building. I watched Hans take his own photos, capture his own memories. I twirled and twisted, smiled and laughed, a ballet between myself and the decorations. I was happy; happy with how pretty things were, happy to be there, happy to be there with Hans. Even the ground was bedecked, the lights and drains reflecting the bulbs above my head. Over me and below me, it was a playground of electrical confetti.

Storefronts and buildings with curved architecture reflected the enormous “Christmas Tree,” altered and expanded and warped it into a vivid world of color.

We contemplated drinks, contemplated more walking, as we strolled around the Circle. Our eyes were drawn to different things—to the reindeer outside the entrance to the Symphony, to the colorful LED tree, to the beautifully cluttered tea store. “This is so beautiful,” I said, gazing at everything. I stared up at the Monument again, it’s creation years illuminated. Its steps were guarded by over-sized nutcrackers, an army of cartoonish characters.

“Yep, this is where I walked the other day, the day you couldn’t come,” Hans said to me, pointing at the nativity we were nearing. “I took a picture of that. Remember?” I nodded, glaring at the bell tower, which had been chiming for several minutes.

The walk back to the car was difficult, and we spent many a minute wandering, confused and lost. When we finally found the car, I insisted on going across the street to photograph the “blue cacti” I had seen. Tall and domineering, the lights turned the trees into regal saguaros, the cacti of Massachusetts Avenue.

Back in the car, huddled and shivering, I thanked Hans for the trip. “This was … fantastic,” I said. “Thank you so much for a wonderful evening. That food … wow. That food was amazing. And thank you so much for taking me to see the lights.”

“You’re very welcome, Sweetheart. You deserve it.”

Simply Having A Wonderful Christmastime

2011-12-19T13:56:00.003-05:00

It's everywhere.

It's on the windows of a cafe in West Lafayette, the walls of stores in the Old Market.

It's in the windows of various shops and stores and buildings all around the country, from banks in downtown Indianapolis to antique dealers in Ames.

It's in churchyards and front yards, labeling the season and decorations as religious. It encourages us to remember the words of Linus van Pelt, the speech that proclaims "That's what Christmas is all about."

It's in the ornament swaps that you see, the ones in which strangers and friends take part, the ones in which decorations are mailed for hundreds, for thousands, of miles in hopes of being loved.

And, indeed, they are. They are loved and viewed and held and stroked and hung upon trees. They are photographed and shared, admired and cared for. They are taken respectfully, loved because they were made with care and thought and representation.

I must thank you, Mary, for the effort you put into mine. I must thank you for showcasing the first two felt ornaments I have ever made, the ornaments I so desperately wanted you to like. When I look at what I gave you, I feel guilty--feel as if I could have done more, could have made something spectacular, something bright and colorful and worthy. I feel guilty because you made me something worth savoring; you reminded me that there are wonderful people in the world, and that, when you least expect it, the network of blogs can introduce you to the kindness of strangers.

That same kindness, that same love, that same "thing" that seems to be everywhere, anywhere is at home. It is in the living room, the kitchen. It's in the air my mother spins, in the words she sings as she bakes and cooks and makes and creates.

It's in the streets, dangling from lamps and wires and making the night drives a little more merry, a little more bright. It's even in the parking lots of grocery stores and bedecked banks. It's in the most expected places, the least expected places. It brightens and enlightens, sparkles and dazzles and mesmerizes. It keeps our gaze, keeps it upward.

It's in the other ornaments I make, the ones I attempt and stitch and argue with as I accidentally stab myself with the needle. "There's joy somewhere in this," I remind myself as I suck my sore thumb.

It's in the finished ornaments I mail--the ones I mail to Michigan, Minnesota, Wyoming, Massachusetts, Virginia, Kentucky, Iowa, Indiana, Italy, Australia. It's everywhere, in every state, in every country. It's on trees and packages, dining room tables and boxes.

It's in the air, on Christmas trees and houses, in streets and store windows. It's in coats and pockets, gloves and shoes and smiles. It outlines gutters and door frames, brightens living rooms. It's in affection, in smiles and laughter and love. It's there, everywhere, inside and outside.

It's everywhere.

Monday Scribbling

2011-12-19T01:23:00.000-05:00

My hometown is small; there is around 1,000 people in it and, until recently, it didn't have a grocery store for several years. When the town was incorporated in 1905, it had two general stores, a furniture & implement house, a livery, two saloons, several blacksmith shops, an independent school with 40 pupils and a town bank.

Today, the Treynor State Bank has three locations, one of which remains in Treynor. However, the previous building still stands. It was built sometime in the early 1900s (I think) and is at the corner of Main and South Eyberg (named for one of the town's "founders," have you).

The "old bank" is a piece of architecture that I always admire, given that it is a) old and b) different from practically all of the other buildings in town. I even have pixelated, vague memories of being inside the building at a young age, standing just behind my mother's leg and gazing up at the high ceilings.

After standing empty for some time, the building now houses an insurance company. After noticing that I "like to take pictures," the main insurance agent invited me in to take pictures of the original vault.

What I found inside were several simple math problems scratched on the walls of the cool concrete.

And Richard apparently left his mark, whoever "Richard" is (far too many people were named "Richard," and far too many people in Treynor still are).

The Island of Misfit Toys

2011-12-15T12:50:00.006-05:00

Earlier, I stood next to the sliding glass door and looked outside, looked at the green grass and the sunshine perkily peering from behind the remaining rain clouds. It was windy--in fact, it still is--but it didn't look cold. It didn't feel cold, either, at 56 degrees.

This Midwestern weather is shocking, surprising, unexpected. My home in Iowa could have several inches of snow on the ground but, here, a few hundred miles away, we have sunshine and sweatshirts.

December is strange.

However, no matter the weather, no matter my location, there are always several Christmas traditions on my mind and, today I wish to share my favorite Christmas movies. The films and television specials are things I have watched since I was a child--my mom and I would watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and sing along. I would pretend to be scared of "The Bumble," a towering snow monster whose fur resembles that of tousled milkweed silk.

While my brother's favorite Christmas special was The Year Without a Santa Claus, we managed to bond--Keith and I--while watching the Home Alone double-feature. "Keith! Your girlfriend ... woof!" I would tease. Eight years my senior, he would tickle me in return. "You stop it." He would eye me suspiciously. "I'll put a tarantula on your face," he would warn, well aware of my long-lasting fear of eight-legged creatures.

Nearly two decades later, we still watch Christmas shows. We laugh, giggle, nibble on homemade cookies and call each other so we can discuss a show we've seen once, twice, a dozen, a hundred times. Keith will watch A Christmas Story while it runs its annual marathon; my mother will laugh at Carol Kane, laugh at her antics as the "Ghost of Christmas Present;" and I will quote lines, quote lines and sing carols and point and imitate everything and anything.

Everything and anything ... which is precisely why this is a picture-heavy post; a post laden with images from my favorite holiday-themed shows, laden with videos and quotes and pop culture.

I'll start with How The Grinch Stole Christmas because, other than A Charlie Brown Christmas, I have been watching this show the longest. I could say so much about this show--about how I loved all the names of the gadgets the Whos gave each other, about how Max the slave-dog broke my heart. About how, when the Grinch peered his lumpy green face over the edge of the foot-board and grinned a terrible, slimy grin, I looked away, afraid of his teeth, his menacing eyes. About how its animated snowflakes and whimsical music and muzzlemuns and jingtinglers and fluflubas and tartinkers still have me enraptured at twenty-three.

Also, I always link How The Grinch Stole Christmas and Home Alone together solely because of this scene.

A Charlie Brown Christmas is my mother's favorite show because "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown." She would watch it on TV when she was young, and her habitual need to yell out "THAT'S IT!" in response to Lucy's diagnosis of panphobia was passed onto me. I still enjoy watching the Peanuts gang "dance," and I will never quite understand why a penguin (and Snoopy's subsequent impression of one) would be necessary for a nativity.

Having mentioned strange nativity creatures, I may as well jump to Love Actually, a movie that recently perked my interest (and has consequently made me think of Joanna and Sam each time I hear "All I Want For Christmas is You"). Over Thanksgiving break, I watched it with my mom, who thankfully enjoyed it (she is not a fan of Hugh Grant). I think I won her over with Colin Firth, though. ... and, perhaps, the fact that both Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman play the parents of a girl who absolutely must be "the nativity lobster."

Another recent movie that has become incredibly popular is Elf. Honestly, it isn't really one of my favorite holiday movies, but I do enjoy bits and pieces ... mostly the first half. That's when you see the unworldly, captivating decorating, hear "Smiling's my favorite!" and recoil from Zooey Deschanel's blond hair (please note: I said recoil from hair, not Zooey Deschanel herself).

Buddy is such a popular icon that he has his own Facebook page, as well as multiple Twitter pages. I even found an article earlier today that mentioned personal branding, and how Buddy is a "no-fail" example for personal and professional success.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer makes me cry (stupid, mean, disapproving reindeer), makes me laugh (YUKON, DO NOT LICK YOUR PICK), makes me sing ("There's Always Tomooooorrrrowww for dreams to come true") and makes me wish that my mother had bought me a fluffy pair of Abominable Snow Monster slippers when I was fourteen, and not the weirdly-shaped periwinkle ones that she did.

I favor this animated movie more than others on this list, which is why I have supplied you with multiple images. (Besides, I'm in a really weird mood. I'm overwhelmed with the prospects of a job and have been looking for an apartment in Iowa. I managed to find one on a llama farm that I sincerely hope is available. Yes, I'm in that type of mood--the one you get when two nights of nightmares about True Blood cause you to be desirous of a home on a camelid establishment.)

"Heeeeeere on the issssslaaaaAAAAnd of MISfit tooooooooys..."

Sorry, I got distracted by singing again.

... does anyone really know what was wrong with the doll? I understand the train with square wheels, the bird who swims, the gun that shoots jelly, the elephant with spots. But. what. is. WRONG. WITH. THE. DOLL? Clearly, this has boggled me for decades.

In addition to Rudolph, two other Rankin/Bass creations that make the list are The Year Without a Santa Claus (my brother's favorite) and Santa Claus is Comin' to Town (my preferred stop-motion). In my opinion, it is impossible to dispute the nostalgia that names such as Heat Miser and Burgermeister Meisterburger invoke. Plus, Mickey Rooney voices Santa Claus in both specials.

It's hard to summarize the creations that Rankin/Bass put out, because there are so many--The Hobbit, The Wind in The Willows, Return to Oz, The Coneheads, Thundercats (yes, I am well aware of what Thundercats are, for I have a thirty-some-year-old brother whose many Thundercat toys were passed to me). However, other holiday-themed Rankin/Bass productions are The Little Drummer Boy; Rudolph's Shiny New Year; Jack Frost; Nestor, The Long-Eared Christmas Donkey (which is incredibly sad, but incredibly rewarding); and Frosty the Snowman.

I don't think Charles Dickens knew that "A Christmas Story"--something he wrote in a mere six weeks--would later become one of the most widely-interpreted stories of all time. It has been turned into films, TV specials, cartoons and musicals--all of which children and adults alike admire. There is always a miserly Scrooge, a helpless Tiny Tim, the battle against painful memories and the possibility of a terrible, irrevocable future. Though I do not question the "greatness" of George C. Scott (which I believe is my mother's favorite version), I find a childlike attachment to Mickey's Christmas Carol, an easily-interpretable animation that includes the gluttonous "food of generosity" scene and pout-inducing Tiny-Tim-the-Mouse.

An even more modern interpretation of the classic tale is that of Scrooged, a film that stars Bill Murray and Karen Allen. In it, a cynically selfish television producer, Frank Cross, is visited by three spirits (I assume you know who). Cross is taken to Christmases past, where he stands, crying over a package of meat his uninterested father meanly tossed him. He observes Christmas gatherings at both his brother's and secretary's homes, where guests degrade him. He is made to witness the psychological decline of a young boy, his untimely death. The ghosts that visit Cross are portrayed in the most interesting of ways--which range from a grungey, cackling cab driver to a flouncy, bubbly Ghost of Christmas Present, played by Carol Kane.

Do I really need to talk about A Christmas Story? No. No, I don't. You know why? Because you and I both know that, at some point time on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, we're going to be watching it. Watching it and smirking at Darren McGavin's pronunciation of the word "fragile."

Have you ever seen A Garfield Christmas? I double-dog dare you to watch it on YouTube, if you haven't.

It is hilarious, in true Garfield-fashion. The cat is, as usual, deadpan and sarcastic, his sidekick yippy and overly excited. Jon and his family are exuberant and diverse, and I have never failed to get a kick out of the brother's pajamas with feet. Or the fact that Jon's mother has practically no eyes. Or how Garfield eats his way to the tree in a dream. Or how ridiculously entertaining everyone looks when they dramatically "ooh" and "aah" over the tree.

Finally, there is White Christmas, a song that I hear every forty-five minutes on the radio. I really do love this movie; it may be my favorite out of all those listed. In fact, though I desperately needed to study at the time, I went to a meeting in the University of Iowa Theatre Building. It was finals week; a week of stress and disastrous cold. I was anticipating my acting final--one in which I would perform a small monologue, among other things. As a stress-buster, I attended a "singing party," one in which fellow theatre students screened White Christmas and snag along to each carol as we sipped hot cocoa and munched on peppermint park.

There are songs I love, dances I enjoy watching. There are also songs I dislike ("Mr. Bones" being one of them but, as I was unable to find a photo to the dimensions I requested, I had to settle for the screenshot below).

I use lines from this movie quote often. For example, whenever Hans makes a face at me, makes a face and pouts or smiles, I tease him about the "big cow eyes" he has. My mom and I deliberately try to incorporate the words "Brrr" and "snow" and "Vermont" into conversations and--when I'm stressed--she'll sing "Count Your Blessings" to me over the phone.

Yes indeed, mom; I will count my blessings. I'll be thankful for the green grass, the mild December weather. I'll be thankful for the opportunity to watch all of these wonderful films, thankful that I can watch them with friends and family and classmates. Thankful for the job opportunity, for Christmas season, for a boyfriend, a brother, a mother. ... a mother with whom I can jokingly sing "Sisters."

Photo Credits:
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

Driving Back

2011-12-13T12:52:00.002-05:00

My aunt told me that one of the worst drives she had ever completed was one from Iowa to Washington D.C. I listened to her, listened to the accent she had inherited from my now-deceased grandmother, one where the letter ‘r’ is introduced into words where it is otherwise absent. “That drive was awful,” she said, “I hated driving to Washington. Hated driving because Illinois, Indiana, Ohio … it is all one giant, flat cornfield.”

It’s hard to argue, especially when you’re used to ups and downs and curves and swerves. When I cross the Mississippi, switch my eyes from the expansive, slow blue to the downward slope of the bridge, the road evens out, flattens, jolts me and my car as I transition from bridge to ground. Flat, endless ground. The hills have disappeared, faded, dissipated into nothingness, into those endless cornfields.

It’s a land of rural harshness. A land of nostalgia. Of fields and farms, agriculture and animals. Of forgotten homes, abandoned schools, dilapidated businesses. It has been unchanged for decades. Unchanged, save for the juxtapositions that dot the hillsides—technologies that balance decades of agricultural tradition.

I document things, drive past stereotypes and Midwest hilarities for which my “California friends” would tease me. Without a recorder, I reach for my phone, the digital holder of my reflections and observations. “Tell your friends you drove past a town called ‘Mud Creek,’” I say, the microphone inches from my lips. “Tell them you think this land fits as many stereotypes as it defies. I mean, both Iowa and Indiana are forgotten by the mainstream, forgotten by urban development. They’re similar in that way, but, yet … they’re so different.” I sucked in a breath of air. “So various in accents and eatings and habits and cities and … weather.” I wrinkled my brow. “All the same, that which is humble is often forgotten.”

I drove. I drove. I drove. The caffeine with which I abused my body forced me to stop frequently, forced me out of the car and into the warmth of Illinois welcome centers, each with its a distinct, regional name. “Spoon River Rest Stop?” I absurdly ask, to no one other than myself. My boots click on the tiled floor as I cross to enter the restroom. “SPOOOOooooOOOn RIIIIIIIIIVER …. Sixty-second mIIIIIiiiile….”

Illinois holds other oddities, and as I speak to Hans and my mother—letting them know my progress across the prairie—I notice a rest stop vending machine, one stocked with jerky and Corn Nuts and dill pickles. “I need to get out of the Midwest,” I remark to my mother, who laughs when I inform her of the machine’s encapsulated “fair food.”

Another stop, another trip to the restroom. It takes a few moments for me to realize that the toilet handle is above my head; I reach for it, pull it, hear the familiar swoosh of water and briefly feel as if I am in a distant country—one that employs suspended water tanks and pull-chains. Feelings of grandeur are fast-fleeting, for it isn’t long before I see a license plate with the abbreviation “PORKLVR.”

I laugh. Finally laugh. Giggle to myself in the car, giggling as Straight No Chaser hums their way through “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” “Not long,” I tell myself. “You’re almost there.” I glance at the cache of Mountain Dew bottles, the half-eaten box of Goldfish crackers. I sip more of my Monster, the sweet acid dripping down my throat and into my veins, which convulsed with manufactured energy. “Almost.”

Driving There

2011-12-12T17:10:00.002-05:00

I can’t disagree. During my many drives across Iowa, Illinois and Indiana, I’ve had many hours in which to think. Days, really, in which to think. I’ve made the ten, eleven—sometimes even twelve—hour journey twenty times, which means I’ve had 220 hours to think. Over nine days. 792,000 seconds in which to make a choice. A life-altering decision. A split-second decision.

It isn’t always easy to come to a conclusion; not when I’m distracted by speeding SUVs driven by individuals who believe that the size of their car makes up for their driving skills.

Everyone I pass—everyone who passes me—is in a world. An enclosed bubble, a casing of metal and fiberglass. As we speed up, slow down, maneuver around and between one another, we cross bubbles. We intersect and, if only briefly, imagine the other person’s life. We see them—we see her singing, him talking, a child’s feet on the dash. Some sleep, others pay heed only to the pavement.

That moment—the moment where our worlds almost collide—reminds of the panopticon. I have all those in my sight—in my mirrors, in front of me, next to me. I see everything that passes me; everything that heads toward me. I see the woman behind me putting on lipstick, the man passing me on his phone. I see map readers and GPS followers and pointers and talkers and sleepers.

Likewise, they see me watching them; they see me singing to the radio, singing and bopping and dancing and pretending that no one can watch, that no one can hear. For a brief moment, our eyes meet—a wink, a smile, a smirk. Our minds connect, simultaneously wandering, simultaneously seeking the other person’s task and destination. All that separates us are a few inches of manufactured shell, and the white, dashed lines that I see reflecting in the veneer of car door.

Wsoosphf. Wsoosphf Wsoosphf Wsoosphf Wsoosphf.

The frequency of the lines increase, its reflections partnered and shiny.

I pass a car from Alaska, one with a bike rack. How would our worlds collide if we were to crash?

I think of these things, these things and more, when I drive. I think of displacement. I think of how, in my first night back at the apartment, I woke up and believed that I was in my hometown, in my mother’s house. My eyes were closed, but I believed I was in my bed, my queen-sized, low-to-the-ground mattress. I believed my computer was just around the corner, waiting for me and my day’s online excursions.

When I did open my eyes, I confused by the abundant sunshine. The bedroom door, and not an entertainment center, stood at the foot of the bed. My computer was rooms away, down the hallway and on the dining room table. I was confused.

I was not in Iowa.

On the road, I wondered about my bearings, wondered about displacement. At the time of my waking, I had been confused as to where I was, confused as to what I could do. Maybe it’s because you’re in an alternate reality; maybe it’s somehow connected with what you dreamed or imagined.

The feeling was real; therefore, I cannot dispute that alternate realities are not.

My mind is jolted from its own rambling by a radio program titled “Trading Post.” Listeners call in and describe needed items, wanted items. One woman requests bales of hay. A man describes his 2500-watt generator. An elderly woman comments on the bikes she is offering for sale. “Trading Post! What’cha got for us?” the deejay greets each caller. “I’ve got a…,” “I need a…,” “I’m selling my…” Pitches, sales, bargains.

The items requested and advertised grow in size and price as I continue on the Illinois Interstate, passing signs advertising Guns Save Life.

Roses are Red My Gun is Blue I Am Safe How About You?

I shake my head, shudder at both the concept and the rhyme.

I glance to the south, notice a lake of frost. It glazes the empty field, reflects the clouds like Salar de Uyuni. It looks like water. Like a lake. Like an ocean of sparkling crystals. Expansive and glittering, a mirror, a pool. I am amazed at how the frozen deadness of agriculture illuminates the morning.

I continue west, chasing time, chasing sunlight. The sunrise had been so beautiful in my rearview mirror, a glow of orange and red and yellow before clouds encased and swallowed it.

It gets darker. Cloudier. I drive and drive. Drive and think and wonder about realities, about the lives of those with whom I briefly interact, about my own life, about the unknown.

Monday Scribbling

2011-12-12T01:08:00.000-05:00

In Omaha, in the Old Market, there is the Gene Leahy Mall--a small haven in downtown where families often gather to feed geese, take walks and race down the enormous slides. It's a beautiful area, the lagoon. It is speckled with waterfalls, with plants and bridges and islands. The entire park is magical during the Christmas season, when everyone--no matter the temperature--packs onto the sidewalks and benches and paths and bridges to watch the million-plus lights turn on and twinkle and sparkle.

Another recognizable landmark in the park is the arch (or, rather, two arches cemented next to each other) at the juxtaposition of 11th and Farnum.

"These two arches are from the former United States National Bank Building that once stood at the corner of 12th and Farnum Streets. The bank, constructed in 1887, was a fine example of late Richardsonian Romanesque architecture and the stone in the arch is Ohio bluestone, a type of limestone. These arches were reconstructed at this site in 1979 and serve as the visual link between the Old Market and the Central Park Mall."

You can often find graffiti and scribblings all over the city; most of it, however, is names of "lovers" or teenage couples who find it appropriate and lasting to carve their names into a city landmark. These words, however, are completely different ... and I had never noticed them before.

Snow & Sleep Deprivation

2011-12-10T13:37:00.006-05:00

I've been absent for a few days because I spent my week driving to Indiana, then turning right around and driving back to Iowa which, of course, forced me to drive to Indiana again. In other words, I drove nearly 2,000 miles and managed to get absolutely nowhere.

I have never been so sleep-deprived, so exhausted, so stressed and confused. I have never been more clueless. I have never abused my body more; the mileage I drove in three days astounds me nearly as much as the amount of caffeine I ingested in order to do so. For a few days, I survived on Mountain Dews, on sugar cookies and Monsters and obnoxious Christmas music.

Had you passed me on the Interstate, on those deadline-friendly roads, you would have seen me lounged in the seat--feet off the pedals, cruise control on. I'd be bopping my head to Jackson 5's "Frosty the Snowman" and singing the lyrics excruciatingly and deliberately off-key. I'd also have my right hand on the steering wheel, maneuvering between SUVs and semis while my left hand dug into a box of Goldfish Crackers.

I was gluttonous. Tired. Ridiculous. Reminiscent. Exhausted.

I was driving.

That being said, the last few days have been incredibly hectic. I haven't been able to piece together my thoughts, my time, my goals. I can't give anyone a straight answer, but I can sing the entirety of "The Twelve Pains of Christmas." I can also provide you with these images--ones that I took during my last night at home. It had snowed the day before, and the trees, bushes and streets were blanketed with white magicalness.

And, yes, I know that "magicalness" is not a real word. But, given my tiredness and inability to remember exactly what time zone I'm in, I'm going to pretend it is. I'm also going to pretend that I have provided you with an appropriate valediction.

Monday Scribbling

2011-12-05T07:49:00.000-05:00

While antiquing in Alpharetta, I came across a booth that had several old yearbooks for sale. I had no intent to purchase them (we all know I was more interested in the kittens for which the adjacent booth was trying to find homes, anyway). Regardless, I flipped through them, laughing at some of the notes people had left each other.

One book in particular caught my eye. It was from the year 1989, and originally belonged to a girl named "Wanda," my mother's real name. I should add that my mother has always been known as "Wendy." It's a name my grandmother loved, but thought "improper." (Which goes along with my mother's theory: that the only people named "Wanda" are prostitutes and strippers.) Thus, when my mother was born, she was christened "Wanda," but never called anything other than "Wendy."

Kudos to an old-fashioned grandmother.

Anyway, 1989 Wanda apparently had some interesting outings, as well as being adored by a Perry (a name that, interestingly enough, my grandmother also used for my uncle).

Then there is this comment, something that is almost worthy of Passive Aggressive Notes.

Getting to Know Me: Labels

2011-12-03T19:01:00.007-05:00

I've gained some followers recently, and I cannot express my gratitude to them (that's not to say I'm forgetting about my tried and true--the ones that started following nearly three years ago). It is just that those individuals have had time to grow with me, to watch me change. To watch me lament about my graduation from Purdue, whine about my time at the University of Iowa. They've watched Hans and I celebrate our first anniversary, our second. They've learned about Indiana, about Iowa, about my childhood and my incessant ability to constantly change my mind. They stuck with me--through pretentiousness, through depression--they kept reading.

I thank them.

I thank you.

However, my more recent followers may not be familiar with me as a person, as a personality. Thus, I plan on sharing a few posts that allow them and, really, all of you, to get to know me.

And so, with a Rodgers & Hammerstein soundtrack, here are my labels...

I’m half-hipster. This means I wear red pants and multiple necklaces at the same time. It means I listen to A Fine Frenzy. Katie Herzig. Sigur Ros. Good ole Florence. It means I have the potential to become a crazy cat lady. It means I care entirely too much about my appearance even though I shop at Goodwill.

I’m relatively liberal. This means I don’t shop at Salvation Army because they do not support gay rights. It means I don’t plan on changing my last name when I marry. It means that I grew up poor, and that I fear I will always be hindered by society because of my family’s monetary status.

I’m fully Iowan. This means I can find peace and familiarity in crops and fields and terraces and hills. It means I grew up with four seasons, and find something to love in each of them—the crunch of leaves, the brisk air in my lungs, the eager morning sunshine, the orange glow of sunsets. It means I went to high school with girls in sweatpants and guys in cowboy boots. It means I enjoy seeing the juxtaposition of farmland and technology--windmills and hills, turbines and terraces. It means that I love coming home to a place where, no matter the time that passes, things always seem to stay the same. It means that I come from a class of 53, a town of 1,000, a state of corn and crops. It means that I, like many Midwesterners, will defend my hometown.

It means I embrace diversity and wear my mother’s hand-me-downs.

I’m an insomniac. This means that I have had difficulties sleeping since I was twelve. It means I do my best work after 9:00 p.m. It means that I find working evenings adventurous, and that my niche is in journalism.

I’m somewhat of a hypochondriac. This means that I contemplate multiple sclerosis each time my foot, hand or leg falls asleep. It means I’m afraid of becoming my parents.

I’m a lover of words. This means that I majored in English and took a job in journalism. This means that the smell of used bookstores gives me a mental orgasm. This means that I love school and erudition. This means that I have eleven boxes stuffed with books from my childhood. This means I’m heavy on adjectives, but light with metaphors. It means I can solve crossword puzzles and anagrams and word jumbles, but that I spent entirely too long writing essays in college. It means that I learned how to love that particular [play by Sophocles, postcolonial book, Pulitzer-prize winning novel].

It means that I love deadlines, fast-paced atmospheres and late-night rendezvous with co-workers, when we gather around drinks and bitch about our aches and pains and how “old” we are.

I’m half-hipster. Relatively liberal. Fully Iowan. I have insomnia. Hypochondria. I have a love for words.

Each phrase, each title, comes with its own loaded expectations and stereotypes. I can guarantee that I will meet at least half of them. However, I can also guarantee that I am unpredictable, especially when it comes to my esoteric brain. I can guarantee that I’m a half-hipster who, surprisingly, will not be offended if you call me “hipster.” I can guarantee that I’ve considered teaching English overseas. I can guarantee that I want to attempt to teach my future children abstinence.

I can also tell you that, when I was born, my parents had no name for me. My sex was unknown, my birth was unexpected. This means that the placard on my isolette listed me as “Clyde.” It means that, for the first two days of my life, I had no other name; I was simply “Clyde.” It means I cried, whined, slept and familiarized myself with light and sounds. It means that I began my journey—one with labels like “hipster,” “liberal,” “Iowan,” “insomniac,” “hypochondriac,” “English major”—as a long-toed, dark-haired baby Clyde.

That was me, then. This is me, now. I’m still long-toed. I still cry. And, despite my familiarity with words, I am often told to “stop mumbling.” As a child, I was honest, quiet. I kept to myself and avoided confrontation. As an adult, I appreciate the quiet moments, the rocky ones, the happy ones, the nothing-is-better-than-what-I’m-experiencing-right-now ones. I try to be honest. I try to be candid. Only, unlike the first two days of my life, I have a name now.

First Day, First Snow

2011-12-02T14:50:00.006-05:00

Back when I was in high school, our teachers would scold us for rushing to the narrow windows, get after us for squishing our noses against the glass and watching as the first flakes blew past the panes.

"But it's snowing!" one of my classmates would exclaim, mouth open and pointing to the outside sky.

"Yes," the teacher would say impatiently, "but you've all seen snow before. Get back in your seats."

We would groan and mumble, shuffle back to our cold seats and attempt to pay attention while our minds would turn to the west, to the window, to winter. The snow, simple flurries or fat flakes, it didn't matter, stole our attention and made us think of childhood. Of sleds. Of snowmen and forts and Christmas and crispness.

Get back in your seats? Please; how is that first snow not magical to you as well?

Iowa had already experienced snow before Thanksgiving, but yesterday, the first of December, was the first time I had seen it at home. I was at my computer typing, examining, networking. I absentmindedly glanced to my left, past the Christmas tree and picture window. Wait ... what is that? Is that ... it is! It's snowing!

I rushed to the window and peered through the blinds. The faint flakes were blowing in from the north, grazing trees and rooftops. Though the sidewalks melted them, the grass was frosted in their crystal glaze.

I quickly slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and bundled in a wrap sweater. My winter coat was on, buttoned, and my camera was slung over my shoulder while I shoved my hands into a pair of gloves. You're going to get cold, I said to my camera.

Out the door.

The cold bit my cheeks and whispered in my ears. The snow was so fine that its pings against dead leaves reminded me of late-night winter storms, when I would lay in bed and listen to the sting of sleet against the glass.

My fingers were stiffened almost immediately, and my eyes watered. Despite my trembling extremities and shivering core, I shuffled to the backyard and watched the snow blow around me, shuddering through the foxtails and into the field. It was so quiet, so peaceful. The low clouds muffled all but the snow, which floated around me. I watched flakes fall from the sky, hover for a moment in the wind before settling.

It was almost sad; each flake, each individual crystal, was so beautiful and delicate. Their beauty came from the air--from the magic swaying and shifting of the winds. First here, then there, they would fall. Fall and gather and collect and sparkle. I stood in the middle of the backyard, arms outstretched. Crystals stuck to the wool of my coat, and I frowned as they melted, frowned as they shattered themselves into water droplets.

The field, ever calm and changing, was misty and magical. I stared at it, watched as the snow covered the remnants of beans. Terraces were sprinkled with white, and fog stretched over the hill. The milkweed pods that had serviced so many butterflies this past summer had sprung open, spilling their life out and into the wintry air.

So different than yesterday, I said to myself. So different from when I was last here.

In October, the colors were captivating. And now, on the first of December, on the first day of a month so wonderful and welcoming and forgiving, there was snow. Beautiful, fragile, magical snow. And I laughed.

I laughed into the wind. Laughed at the field, laughed at the broken snowflakes on my coat and in my hair. Laughed because it didn't matter what my high school teachers said--it didn't matter if I had seen it before.

It's still natural, still beautiful, and still so utterly captivating that, no matter my age, I will always rush to the window and press my hand, press my nose, against the glass. Press my face against the glass and watch.

December Eve

2011-11-30T12:20:00.004-05:00

This is my 500th post. Granted, you can only see 200-some posts; however, that is only because a few weeks back, I completely redid this blog; I reformatted and redesigned and revamped. I deleted some things, kept others--including a count--of how many posts I had. Public or not, the creation of this post is my blog's 500th. The blog itself always has room to grow and change and accommodate, but I wanted to start by erasing some of the more embarrassing posts--the ones about style and collages and wish lists and inane-ness that, frankly, I didn't really care about.

...and now I am frantically panicking over how to accommodate the preposition in the previous sentence. Because that's who I am; I'm one to use prepositions correctly. And one to start sentences with the word "because." And one to write fragments. Deliberate fragments.

That reminds me of a time long ago, back in fifth grade, when my tall, bearded teacher taught us that the word "No" is an entire sentence. "It can't be!" we fought back, yelling and pointing at the chalkboard. "How is 'no' a sentence? Where's the verb? The subject?" He explained to us, patiently, the implied subject, the sense of action with the invisible words, No, I will not.

Just as those words were unseen, but understood, my imagination puts descriptions and titles and letters and sounds to each image I see. Old. Gone. Not for awhile. Golden. Unnoticed. Unimaginable. Invincible. Magical. Simon and Garfunkel accompany me as I drive up and over the hills, around terraces and onto gravel. Dust spills into the air, follows me and traces me back home. The upbeat twang of Sarah Jarosz attaches itself to the dirt on the bottom of my shoes, and the beat of "Song Up In Her Head" follows me and pounds through my black boots and into my calves, my thighs, my hips, my heart, my head.

The Virgin Mary
All dressed in blue
Sings 'My First Lover'
For an audience of two

And there it is, again--the reminder that today is December Eve. Goodbye November; goodbye gluttonous habits and rainy days and orange glows. Goodbye to farmers in the field, turning leaves and vivid colors. Goodbye to fall ... and hello to a season, to a time of cold crispness and the gift of presence. Not presents.

Third Challenge

2011-11-29T11:26:00.000-05:00

Today I plan to do some headshots for an old friend. "Old" as in, "I have known the individual for awhile," and not "I have an ancient, wrinkled pal that wants me to take pictures of him." So, in order to catch up with photos, I'm sharing a sampling of my third photo challenge: the family portrait.

I was honored to photograph LuAnn and her family; she and I are former classmates. She has always supported my "taking of pictures," for which I am, and always will be, grateful. Indeed, she asked me last year to take pictures of her daughter, who was three months old at the time.

Her only instructions? "Make her look good."

"Okay," I said, my voice shaking a little. "As long as you and I both know that I have no idea what I'm doing."

... and I didn't. I still don't. I am simply honored that LuAnn has given me two opportunities to practice portrait photography. I can't thank her enough.

The, "But...but...but...Buuut MOOOoooOOOOm" face.

Monday Scribbling--November 28

2011-11-28T08:59:00.004-05:00

No, I did not personally take this photo (hence the link below the photo). However, I found it relatively entertaining. It puts a slight spin on the old "Hey, let's go stand by the NO LOITERING sign and take a photo."

When in doubt, wink, peace and pout!

Round Two

2011-11-27T12:10:00.000-05:00

I already shared with you my first attempts at portrait photography. As I previously stated, "I asked anyone from my hometown region if they would be interested in a miniature photo shoot. It was September, a gorgeous month, and I was in need of practice."

My cousin gracefully accepted the challenge, and I had a lot of fun photographing her. My second challenge, however, was a couple. They chose to visit the same places where I photographed my cousin but, as you can see, the end results are entirely different. They are goofy, as you can tell, and have been attached for more than four years. I enjoyed attempting to capture their personalities, their moments--ones of laughter and silliness, but also ones of raw tenderness and adoration.

In fact, as they stood next to each other, gripping each other's waists and staring into each other's eyes, I remember Cassy saying to Derrick, "I just can't look at you that long without hugging or kissing you."

Omaha Holiday Lights Festival

2011-11-25T18:34:00.004-05:00

There are a lot of people who spend their Thanksgiving evenings napping, sleeping on top of couches or nests upon the floor. TVs will blare scores, touchdowns, commercials, and the drone of voices in the kitchen and living room will fade late into the day. Families make Christmas lists, map out Black Friday plans. They watch games, contemplate snow and the fast-approaching New Year.

I spend my Thanksgiving evenings in Omaha, or least imagine to. I hadn't been to the Holiday Lights Festival in three years and, knowing that I would be in the area, I convinced my mother to cross the river for the event.

It was a beautiful evening. Breezy, but 60-some degrees. Warm. Airy. Refreshing. Wonderful.

We hobbled along the cobbled streets, stepping into the year-round Christmas store. Mom checked prices of figurines and Peanuts ornaments while I dreamily admired an olive-tree nativity. We danced around thousands of ornaments, sashayed beneath ivy-covered arches and glittering, mirrored garland that stretched floor-to-ceiling.

Outside, in the Old Market, a trumpeter tapped out "Joy to the World." His notes were accompanied by the jingle of bells from the nearby horse carriages that invite tourists and locals alike for over-priced, relaxing rides through the old streets.

Carolers, lights, carriage rides ... the sights and sounds of Christmas festivities were on each corner, from 11th and Howard to 10th and Farnum.

"I'm so glad you came with me," I gushed to my mom. "I haven't done this in awhile. I hope you like it!"

We staked out a spot in the Gene Leahy Mall, one with a grassy patch and a tree stump. We joked about things and spoke of the day's activities before being interrupted by a couple with two dogs who were remarkably interested in mom. The dogs, a twelve-year-old yellow lab and an eight-week-old puppy, respectively, licked her hands and guarded her side. "I think I inherited a dog," she said to me, as the older lab nested beside her and refused to follow her owners down the hillside.

Shortly after 6:00, the last rays of sunshine disappeared behind the downtown buildings. The sky deepened from red to purple to blue to black, and we sat, impatient but comfortable, for the lights to flicker on.

10 ... 9 ... 8 ... 7 ... The countdown began, and echoes of the numbers bounced between buildings and trees, people and pets and benches. Half of the crowd was still on "two" when the lights were turned on with a spectacular explosion of "oohs" and "aahs."

Twinkling and glittery, the 1,000,000+ lights sparkled through the branches. Their reflections danced upon the water, shimmering with luminescence. They shone brightly, and when you tilted your head up, they teased and lit up the sky, an inner-city galaxy.

I turned to mom, assisted her in climbing back up the hill. "Was it worth it?" I asked through the parade of people rushing past. Take time and enjoy them, I thought. Don't be in such a hurry to leave something so peaceful.

"Definitely," mom answered. "Thank you for suggesting it."

Lucky Magazine: Best Friends & Fashion

2011-11-25T15:51:00.000-05:00

I'm honestly hesitant to post this, and I'll probably regret sharing this piece of embarrassing literature I wrote for Lucky Magazine. I put it together at the same time I was trying to impress people--agents, editors, bloggers. I wanted to feed them the words that they wanted to hear, feed them the shallow thoughts that the Lucky editors believe their readers want.

Though I was devastated at the time, I later came to appreciate the fact that my entry was not accepted; at the last possible minute, my words and pictures became embedded with errors and codes that I was unable to fix. I frantically emailed the magazine, tweeting them my problem with utmost panic.

Obviously, the issue was not resolved.

I later learned that other contestants had issues, and many (dozens, in fact) are upset with Lucky Magazine. Though I am happy to hear that I was not the only reader who had difficulty, it is disappointing that a renowned magazine has dropped readership as a result of poor planning and a lack of communication. In a way, I am happy to not be associated with the magazine.

... but that entry still shows how shallow I can be, too. Though I am embarrassed by it, I am by no means embarrassed by mother. The feelings I do manage to express are quite true (though the relation of the stories are somewhat hyperbolic). In fact, my mother is the reason why I am sharing this entry. Every time I see the collage I made, or the photo of her playing guitar, my heart travels across two states, across time.

It is true; I wish I had known her then.

I was born at a time when bold patterns and gender-neutral names like Morgan and Taylor were sprouting. My best friend, on the other hand, was raised in conservative-yet-classic dress styles that mimicked First Lady Jackie Kennedy. More than twice my age, my best friend has experimented with hairstyles and bell bottoms, cat eye glasses and seersucker. By the time the ‘90s rolled around, she had exchanged flowery, flouncy dresses for denim and oversized polka dots. I, however, was still curly-haired and dimpled, dressed in Lion King T-shirts and citrus-colored shorts (think Jenni Kayne).

Today, after a brief, teenage obsession with Hot Topic, I indulge in bright colors and pencil skirts. As for my best friend? She passed her vintage relics to me, and now stresses comfort and simplicity. She argues that makeup “gives her a headache;” I struggle to leave the house without ChapStick and blush. As for foot apparel, my best friend seeks solid arch support and wide flats as a result of her physical impairment. I, however, love me some heels (such as MIA’s “Ella”); I stand tall, walk proud, sometimes even strut. We have different styles, sure, but we’ve always supported each other’s individual beauty.

We kind of have to—we’re related.

Mom was in her early thirties and was busy embracing a life of frugality when I was born. Handmade, solid-colored shirts hung in her closet and I—the baby who had to grow into both her ears and feet—was dressed in many of the same items she had once worn.

By the time I was in school, my favorite colors were purples, pinks and pastels—an affection that is apparently inheritable. As I grew up, I grew into a trend I wouldn’t recognize until I compared photos years later—I copied my mother.

From hairstyles to hobbies, my high school years mimicked those of my mother, a 1974 graduate and enthusiast of performing arts and flowing patterns. In the few pictures that do exist from her late teens and early twenties, my mother is always found in simple-yet-elegant patterns like those at Ruche, a vintage-inspired store popular with bloggers. A string of pearls, a delicate lilac, a high-waisted peasant gown; just like the Cover Girl products she and I both enjoy, mom’s clothes were easy, breezy, beautiful.

There’s one photo of her that I absolutely love. Mom is 16, her hair straight from ironing (remember, these were the days before the GHD Classic Styler). She’s donning the epitome of ‘70s outerwear and playing the guitar. Sure, she has on over-sized eyewear (my first pair made me look like an owl, too), but she is carefree and artistic, easygoing and bejeweled with rings handcrafted in Arizona. I look at her, look at who she was, and say, “That’s mom.” She dressed in a way that reflected who she was.

Forty years later and beset with multiple sclerosis, mom has a one-word theory: comfort. The base rules of her style are flat soles, flexible bottoms and non-restrictive tops. Stores like Lane Bryant offer stylish, affordable tops for plus-size gals and some items, such as Fresh Ayer’s Linda Top, even mimic mom’s former style. Old Navy is her store of choice when it comes to trousers, and, as it is my favorite place to scour for trendy, inexpensive finds, it is common for us to pull the same styles in different sizes off the racks.

Favorite Store: Gordmans

Favorite Decade: 1970s
Recent Purchase: Turquoise Earrings from Tinker Girls
Can’t Live Without: Her decorative, zebra pattern walking cane.
Go-To-Beauty Product: Johnson’s Baby Oil Lavender
“The baby oil is a wonderful relaxant that keeps my skin soft and silky.”

Favorite Store: Modcloth

Favorite Decade: 1950s
Recent Purchase: Floral Crochet-Back Top from Charlotte Russe
Can’t Live Without: The necklace I made out of my mom’s charm bracelet.
Go-To-Beauty Product: Revlon Matte Lipstick in “Really Red”
“I love heirloom jewelry; it’s highly personal and easy to upcycle.”

Like Joanne Nam and Jo Miller, my mom is also a style icon … it just took me two decades, three pairs of over-sized glasses and an atrocious pair of leopard-print pants to figure it out. Let’s face the facts: as a child, my mother was bombarded by America’s Royal Family and, as an adult, by the culture of natural beauty. I should have known to trust her when she gifted me her own Missoni-style shirt. “You can be a trend, or you can be yourself,” she told me. Solid advice from a woman who, decades before diagnosis, marriage and motherhood, had ushered in the easygoing, no-fuss fashion I aspire to. “Red pants, eye makeup and decades aside,” I said, pointing at photos of us, “I just want someone to look at a picture of me and say, ‘That was her. That was Dawn.’”

Abandoned Indiana

2011-11-22T16:44:00.004-05:00

The following photos were taken along U.S. Highway 40, the "National Road." Depending on which direction you are heading, the road is eastward or westward, paralleling Interstate 70 through Indianapolis, Cumberland, Philadelphia/Spring Lake and Greenfield.

In addition to a few roadside oddities, there are abandoned barns, farms, hotels and apartments. Hundreds, even thousands of cars, pass by each of these forgotten buildings every day. I doubt anyone bothers to actually look at many of these places; to them, they are a familiar eyesore, the exact opposite of what worthwhile scenery is and should be.

To me, they are perfect.

We're on Good [Search] Terms

2011-11-22T00:50:00.000-05:00

Blog stats be fun.*

*deliberate subject-verb disagreement.

My favorite things to check are the referring websites, as well as the search words used to find my blog. Referring sites include Google, of course, as well as Wordless Wednesday. However, Specialised Class Action Lawsuit has appeared once (which, of course, makes me ridiculously nervous), as well as an online business degree (I do not have a business degree, nor do I ever want one; WHY AM I THERE) site with a ".uk" URL. What I am most amused and confused by is the fact that I have multiple referrals from Goats On Stuff. (No need to explain further; go and have a look yourself. You'll find lots of goats standing on a variety of objects.)

I've got some popular posts, the most common being Ben-Day Dots. At the time, I was doing research for a stage makeup class, and was considering Lichtenstein's work for a final project. Little did I know that, every week, dozens of people would search for "Lichtenstein," "Ben-Day dots," "Lichtenstein dots," "face painting dots," "Lichtenstein makeup," or "face of the dots." It's even linked through "hyper realistic face painting." Three of the more original searches that led to the same post included "circle pixels" and the elaborate "girl face crying dot shading" and "old fashion comic characters dot printing."

Other popular searches include the straight-forward "Natalie Irish" and "Patrick Doughtery" (whose work I have seen in two cities now).

Every sentence and configuration you can think of including the word "bohemian" has been used to find Bohemian Attractions (which was the result of doing research for costume design).

The other top posts concern RAGBRAI, which is the annual bike ride across the state of Iowa. I posted a typical post to introduce the event, which I followed with a personal reaction.

However, the more interesting list of search terms is listed below:

--"vintage patriotism"
--"how to teach your cat french" and "101 uses for a dead cat" both lead to this post
--"jesse morrell hooters"
--"dog belt mouth" (I was curious to see what this yielded; I saw muzzles and doggie seat belts)
--"no. 3 no. 4 sock animal"
--"clied postsecret" (My blog appears first because I did go to a PostSecret event while at the University of Iowa.)
--"lisa frank cross stitch"
--"S.C. Purdue" and "Class of 50 purdue statues" lead to this post
--"color blocking 2011"
--"steam punk style"
--"garbage smells good"
--"people taking off the sunglasses"
--"donut cupcake wallpaper"
--"octagonal leaves vine w/sticky flowers (I have a feeling this leads to the post about our spring break trip, when we encountered the "penis leaves.")
--"pretend and play medical kit"
--"crazy skittle sculptures"
--"what connotation does the name Smitty have"

Scenes from the Weekend

2011-11-21T09:22:00.004-05:00

I did some Christmas shopping on Friday, stopping at both a Hobby Lobby and an antique shop. I did pick up three small images for myself as well; they are miniature postcards from Italy--one from Tivoli, two from Monreale. They are three small reminders that encourage me to refresh my Italian, to remember it and cultivate it.

That evening, Hans and I went to a Chinese buffet. Already starved at 4:15, we arrived at the buffet at 4:30. We waited patiently for it to start, joking and talking for half an hour. Hans stirred his Mountain Dew, extracting two unexplained herbs from the ice cubes. Despite the presence of the specks in his drink, the food was delicious. Fresh, hot, perfect. Plate after plate, we scarfed appetizers and courses and desserts.

We drove off into the sunset.

On Saturday, we ventured into Indianapolis. Our first stop was a visit to Easley Winery, where we were given a free tour. The Press House, the Fermentation Room, the Bottling Area. It was interesting and informative; I could take pictures, Hans could learn the process.

Seven wines were too much; I shorted myself one sample at the tasting, cheeks rosy from the others. I had savored each glass; looked at it, swirled it, smelled it, sampled it. There were three I liked, but only one, whose peach scent transcended from nose to stomach, that I loved. I remember pointing at the tiny cracker jar and saying, "I want this as much as I want the wine."

We visited James Whitcomb Riley's home, which is stunningly and utterly original.

The bust in the courtyard was constructed to be the same height as that of Mr. Riley. "I've got four inches on you, Hoosier poet," I said to the bust.

After Riley's home, we managed to find our way back to Sun King Brewery, an establishment that I knew Hans would be interested in. We entered, joined a free tour group, began walking around the tanks and pipes and bubbling mess. The smell, a sour reek, gave me an instant headache. I could taste it, sense it on my tongue and throat, and I frowned. My nose wrinkled in remembrance of how much I hate beer.

The cooler, however, was awful. At 32 degrees it was cold, yes, but it also had a distinct scent that instantly and fully plugged my nose, choking me. My eyes burned, and I stood, eyes closed, tears leaking out the sides. I wasn't listening to the guide, nor did I care about what he said. I had lost interest long ago.

I aborted the tour, stood in line for the one, one-stall unisex bathroom the brewery had. I glanced around, saw buzzed individuals, even two drunk individuals. It was full and loud and noisy and intoxicating and nauseating. Not my type of place.

Driving through and around downtown, weaving past construction and one ways, we found Minx Vintage, a small store with choice garments. Hans tried on hats, jackets. I tried on dresses, coats. Not a piece was stained, torn, ripped, ruined. Hats from the 1930s, a man's three-piece suit from the '40s, '60s dresses and '80s shoes. It was a melee of vintage and antique, of thrifted and found and picked. I was impressed, and I promised the store owner that I would spread word.

We walked back to the car, sat inside its locked doors for quite awhile. We sifted through attractions and entertainment, points of interest and galleries and restaurants. Finally, I voiced my true feelings.

"I'm too tired. I just ... want to go back to the apartment. That's why I mentioned it. I'm so sleepy. We both know I haven't been sleeping and, even though I know you said you wanted to spend a whole day here, I don't think I can do anything more."

No hard feelings. No fights.

I laughed through my tears.

"Why are you crying?" Hans asked, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just that tired," I said hysterically, still laughing. "I'm just so tired. It's not that I'm upset about anything, it's not that I feel bad. I'm just. that. tired." I sighed and wiped my eyes. "I can feel it everywhere. My brain, my body. I'm weary and I can feel it everywhere." I relaxed back into my seat, dreaming of falling asleep while reading a book.

"Well," said Hans, "How about we drive around a little bit and then head back? Does that sound good?"

"Absolutely."

The short trip up and down Washington, past the Circle and through the city lights was worth it. Sparkling and shiny, glittering and reflective, I knew I had to come back in December to see the magic completed.

Sunday was our lazy day. We spent our mornings and afternoons on our respective computers, shouting out at each other with interesting finds and comments. I stayed in my pajamas until 2:00, then took a shower and changed into a clean pair of pajamas. I made a work station on the living room floor, weaving and stitching and scissoring Christmas ornaments as I watched True Blood reruns. Hans joined me after the first two episodes, then announced he was hungry for a "giant stack of pancakes."

"Can I have a Mickey Mouse pancake?" I asked, cutesy and flirtatious.

And last night, after ornament-making and phone calls to our mothers, we curled next to each other, talking about secrets and aging before drifting peacefully and quietly to sleep.

Monday Scribbling--November 21

2011-11-21T08:40:00.003-05:00

Sadly, I can't remember where either of these photos originated. I do not claim them as my own, but I can't cite them, either (I believed I pulled both from friends on Facebook). If that is so, I thank thee. If not, I thank whoever originally took these photos.

I just know that, as an avid Harry Potter fan, I couldn't pass these up.

Sunlight over Social Media

2011-11-18T12:16:00.000-05:00

At a time when most words seem to have an ulterior motive, I have decided to remain honest here. It is difficult not to get caught in the whirlwind addictions of Pinterest and Twitter. I don’t doubt that inspiration and connections are taken from these sites. However, they are also a source of selfishness and social worries. What is my Klout score? How many followers do I have? Is anyone reading this? If I post this, what will people think? I want to be as popular as her/as famous as him/retweeted as often/liked as much.

Sometimes, I don’t understand why some individuals can be so obsessed with numbers. “I have 1,500 friends and only 20 percent wished me ‘Happy Birthday?’”

Why should anyone expect a certain amount?

On that note, I am glad that some bloggers participate in a meme called “Honest to Blog.” They speak of numbers, of copying, of feelings and truth. Honest words. I am still slightly discouraged, though, because I almost sense that these same bloggers are hesitant to post their inner workings on days without a meme. Why should they be scared of what they feel and think and participate in?

Unfortunately, I think that is why a lot of bloggers get accused of being falsities—they are accused of posting for an audience, and not for themselves.

It is very hard not to be distracted, not to be enveloped in others’ sharing, not to be thinking of a witty pun to include in 140 characters. It’s hard not to share posts about design and inspiration. However, there is no reason why one individual should second guess their outfit, their posts, their ideas or their crafts because “this person has it” or “that person already did that” or “if I do this, someone will think I’m copying.” With abundant social media, hardly anything is original; people do have similar ideas and, if I were to spend 10 hours handcrafting Christmas ornaments, I would not be surprised to find hundreds of other individuals with similar decorations.

It’s also hard for me to give up social networks because of the industry for which I have worked. Most individuals want hard news with instant gratification, so to work with newspapers and say “I don’t have a blog/Twitter/Facebook/Google+/LinkedIn/Klout score/Tumblr/feature on Bloglovin’/Etsy shop/fan page/fan page for my cat” is a condemnation. In the end, I probably should keep things that I feel may be jeopardizing my privacy … or my free time.

I don’t want to miss life, miss the changing of the leaves, the smell of a freshly cooked meal, a sunset, a laugh with Hans, an evening out, a day spent in, a phone call from a friend, streaks of sunlight on the carpet … I don’t want to miss any of it. At the end of the day, those are the things I see and sense and feel and taste; and, no matter the number of followers, no matter the number of retweets, no matter the highs and lows of Klout, social networks cannot replicate my sensual experiences.

Building a Fort

2011-11-18T09:19:00.006-05:00

“Well, what do we do now?” Hans asked, his arm stretched across the back of the couch.

I sat next to him, facing him, my legs curled up under me. It was Friday night. We had just finished watching American Beauty and had already discussed the artistic shallowness of each character.

“It was a good movie,” I had said, “But it was still frustrating having to watch characters without a personality. You never saw anyone develop.”

“Well, maybe that was the point. You’re supposed to see that everyone has vanities. I mean, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? The hollowness of it all?”

After his response, I had been on the couch thinking about the materialisms of the middle class, of Anywhere, USA. His question about what to do disrupted my thoughts which, thankfully, did not contain red rose petals.

“What?” I said, meeting his gaze.

“What. Do. You. Want to do?” Hans enunciated the first part of his sentence. “I don’t want you to be bored.”

I stretched across the couch and hugged his midsection. Squeeeeeze. He patted my back and rubbed the muscles that frequently develop knots. What to do, what to do, I thought, still hanging onto Hans. My brain suddenly sprung with spontaneity, and I breathed in a short gasp of air at the “brilliance” of my idea.

“LET’S BUILD A FORT!” I half-shouted, excitedly bouncing.

“Oh. My. Gosh … yeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssss,” he hissed. He quickly bounded up off the couch. “Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.” He exaggerated his breathing, and his hands were splayed out flatly as if to say, “Now, let’s just all calm down.” “Okay,” he said hyperbolically, “What we do use to build the fort?”

“CUSHIONS!”

“CUSHIONS!” He yelled back. We picked up the three couch cushions and threw them onto the floor, unsure of precisely what to do with them.

“CHAIRS!” I yelled again, pointing to the dining room seats, one of which simultaneously serves as my “computer chair.”

Hans hopped and skipped over to the chairs and carried them back to the living room decidedly. He placed them opposite each other, about four feet from the couch. “Who will be attacking our fort? Who are we defending it from?”

“Donuts,” I instantly responded. Why did I skip out on improv, I wondered.

I heard Hans stifle a laugh. “Donuts? Okay!” He took my suggestion at face-value, playing along with the ridiculousness of my imagination. “Our fort will need a roof to protect us from jelly catapults!”

I ran to the hall closet, grabbed blankets and sheets and pillows, an endless supply of cloth and fabric to construct and maintain. After a few seconds of “How do we build up the other wall?” we half-jogged to the second bedroom and grabbed totes. Tote after giant, stackable plastic tote. Hans grabbed his camping chair to set atop the cushion-less couch. Blankets were placed over it, creating a lopsided, dual-peak mountain, in addition to a more-than-awkward fort entrance.

“How did we do this when we were kids?” Hans asked as he struggled to hold up the middle of the fort. A flat sheet ran across the top of the TV, enclosing the screen in what would soon be a 7’x6’ fort.

I laughed. “We had our parents’ help,” I said, collapsing in giggles. “Which is a ridiculous explanation, because we’re adults now who should be able to do this!”

Hans smirked, then disappeared. I stood there dumbfounded, sheet in hand. A few seconds later, Hans returned with his rotating fan, a novelty that could be extended to a greater height. “This,” he said, plopping it in the middle of our fort, “Is our central point.”

Having established corners, ends and a structurally sound middle, I climbed in and began building a “nest.” Hans joined me a few minutes later, taking the unethical route through the spokes of a dining room chair. His arms bent and swayed at awkward angles as he maneuvered his ribs, hips and thighs past the wooden legs. I laughed and took pictures, comparing it to the narrow crevice through which he had passed when we went spelunking at Maquoketa. “I don’t know how you do that,” I said, watching as he entered the fort at a 90-degree angle.

“Strategy.”

I smiled. “Speaking of strategy, we need … REINFORCEMENTS!” I yelled out the last word excitedly, stooping to climb out of the fort and over the canvas chair on the couch. “We need things to throw at the donuts if they begin attacking us!” I reasoned, going back to the closet. More blankets, more pillows. I grabbed the tick pillow from the bed as well, running back to the living room, where the fort cozily and warmly took up the entire space. “I’m going to feed them to you,” I said, shoving the linens via the same “entrance” Hans had taken just two minutes earlier.

“Reinforcements,” I would state.

“Reinforcements,” Hans responded, as I fed him blankets and pillows. I shoved the tick pillow in last and, upon seeing it, he began to laugh. “OH. My.”

I entered the fort again, happy to find a comfy nest. The stand of the fan had been completely covered, and pillows lined the entire floor. Blankets were woven and intertwined, a colorful melee of fabrics and textures.

Hans and I curled around each other, indulging in donut-related innuendo for several minutes. Giggling, I sat up and attempted to lean back, instead breaking through the wall of the fort.

We erupted in laugher, and I lay, turtled, on the collapsed couch cushion. “I ruined our fort,” I said through laughs.

After reconstructing that part of the wall, I settled into a more comfortable position, using the couch as back support. Hans stretched out similarly, commenting that our fort had a fan, a TV and wifi. “We’re prepared.”

I told him about the different types of forts I had built when I was child. I told him that, in the spring and summer, mom would hang sheets across the clothesline and pin them together in the middle. “It wasn’t a real fort, really, more like a giant tunnel,” I said. “But it was still fun. Mom would put blankets on the ground and I would sit out there for hours and color and play and … yeah.” I pictured our old house, the small yellow one, and the white, flowery sheets stretched across the yard. I told him about the more-than-a-century-year-old maple tree that had been there, and how it was cut down by the people who lived there after us. “We had the clothesline, and then there was the hammock, a really cheap string hammock, that was attached to the clothesline and then the tree. I have a picture of my cousins and I in it.” I smiled at the memory, as did Hans. Next, I told him about the time Keith and I turned the couch into a McDonald’s. “We built up the cushions on the front and made the couch itself into a tunnel. We had two “windows” which could be used as the drive-in.” I smiled again. “It was fun.”

I turned back to Hans, who was gazing at me, “that look” in his eyes.

“What?” I asked, just as I always do. Hans continued to smile, but reached out to stroke my cheek. His fingers brushed my dimples, my ears, my collarbone. “I love you,” he said, his hand on my neck. His fingers held their grip as he used his thumb to stroke my cheek. I closed my eyes and melted to the sensation. I reached up and touched his hair, running my fingers through his short locks. His fingers traced my jawbone before cupping my chin, a sign that meant “Open your eyes.”

“I want you to be happy,” he said softly, looking at me. “I don’t want to lose you, but I want you to be happy here.”

“I know.”

We sat, wordless, for several minutes, our palms touching, our cheeks resting against one another. His hands in my hair, on my waist, cupping my face. My hands in his hair, on his waist, cupping his face.

“You know I love you,” he said, his eyes light and loving. They sparkled in the dim light of the fort.

“I know,” I said, smiling to ward off tears.

My efforts did not go unnoticed. “No,” he whispered. “Don’t cry.” He reached out and wiped my eyes with his thumb.

“At least you know these are good tears,” I said. Hans smirked, exuded a small hiccup. He pulled me close, held me to his chest. My hand reached for his heartbeat, and I buried my face into his neck, breathing in his veneer.

His lips grazed my forehead. “I love you so much, Dawn,” he said, whispering. “You’re so beautiful.” I hugged him even more tightly, letting him continue his words. “You’re so much fun. I love having fun with you. I love laughing with you. I love that you like to watch movies and do things. I love that you like to build forts.”

Encamped in his arms, I smiled happily, my heart racing.

“Are you sure you want to be with me for the rest of your life?” he asked.

I looked down, sniffing. I didn’t know what to say. I was speechless, engrossed in emotions and happy thoughts, racing hearts and adventurous future. “I couldn’t imagine not having someone to laugh with every day,” I said.

Hans looked at me. “You want me to ask you now, here...” he gazed around our short roof, the orange glow of the fabric, “…in this fort?”

I laughed, shook my head. “No. I just want you to love me.”

And so we talked. Talked about futures, about marriages. About kids and jobs and problems and money and work and family. About Thanksgiving and Christmas, Iowa and Indiana, here and there and everywhere between. We crossed lines, emotions. Our hands held each other, comforted one another, exchanged electricity and chemicals and heartbeats as we talked and talked and spoke about life, my life, his life, our lives. “I love you.” “I love you, too.” “I want to take care of you.” “I don’t want to be away from you again.” Hands, emotions, tears, joy, love; our fort was a stronghold.

In the morning, the fort remained half-standing, basking in the sunshine and lopsided. Hans had taken the chair from the couch, intending it to use as a seat for his camping trip that evening. Cushions and blankets were strewn across the floor, collapsed into a heap that held no tells of the secrets we had divulged the night before. I picked up each piece, folded blankets and sheets. I put the chairs and totes to their respective homes, swept the living room with my eyes.

It was clean.

I was alone.

Before leaving for his camping trip an hour earlier, Hans had hugged me extra tightly, “I love you,” he had said, before grabbing his gear and heading out the door.

I had watched him leave, had waved from the sliding glass door as his car backed up and exited the parking lot. I had then checked my messages and gotten ready for the day before picking up the living room and collapsing on the couch, where I now sat, alone and thoughtful.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I voiced.

This is Not What I Intended to Say

2011-11-17T13:28:00.002-05:00

My flight home left at an ungodly hour. I remember thinking, “Wwwwwwhhhhhyyyyyy?” when I whacked my alarm clock at around 4:00, climbed into the car half an hour later and entered the airport a little after 6:00. Hans had driven me to the airport, kissed and hugged me goodbye at the drop-off. “Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, Sweetie,” he told me. “I’ll miss you.” I’ll miss you, too, I breathed into his coat. Not wanting to jet across the Midwest (for I’m quite afraid of flying), I was hesitant to let go. As he attempted to walk back around to his side of the car, I held his hand and jack-knifed him into another hug. “Go,” he said, squeezing me. “Don’t cry.” I furiously blinked, willing my eyes not to let go. “Bye,” I said quietly, waving.

Inside the airport, I checked in, stood in line and waited for security to scan me. After having taken a full-on X-ray of my internal organs, the guards still insisted on patting me down. “Ummm, okay,” I said, stepping aside. My shoes were off, my back cold from having taken off my sweatshirt. I wore only undergarments, jeans and a camisole. What they hell do they think I’m hiding? I asked myself, my ID in hand. Luckily, the female guard barely grazed me as her hands passed my arms, shoulders, back and thighs. “You’re fine,” she said matter-of-factly. “Go ahead and get your stuff.”

After a racing to catch a connecting flight in Minneapolis, I settled down in my seat for the last one-hour plane ride to Omaha. It was still early in the morning; the sun was rising, and fog formed on the tarmac. I leaned my head back, placed on arm on one of the armrests. “God, please guide…”

My usual ritual for flying.

An hour later, I strolled through the terminal at Omaha, eager to see my mother. The unexpected security requirements, the anxiety, the stress, the threat of lost luggage—none of it mattered once I saw her. Recognizing me, she pulled a roll of yellow paper out of her pocket and stretched it out. “WELCOME HOME, DAWN!” it proclaimed with sparkles and glitter and swirls and letters.

I smiled and laughed. “You made me a sign? Oh, gosh, that’s awesome!” I stepped up to her and grinned uncontrollably. “Hi, mom!” I said gleefully, giving her a hug. She embraced me harder than I expected, clearly eager to see me. “I’m not letting you go back there,” she gushed, dragging me by the shoulders.

“I know, I know,” I sighed. “You say that every time.”

“And every time I mean it.”

A year later, I still hear those words from my mom. In fact, I heard them the other night, when I told her that I wanted to come home for Thanksgiving. “No, you really shouldn’t,” she instructed me over the phone.

“Why not? I want to. I need to. You have no idea how much I miss things here. It’s not like I’m at school where I have friends and fun and schoolwork. Here, there is nothing. I have found nothing. I would rather go home and spend Thanksgiving there. I know you’re worried about the car, about it getting back and forth, but I need a break. I would really like to come home.”

“If you come home, I’m not letting you go back.”

I laughed. “Mom, you’ve been saying that for three years.”

It is hard for me to say the word “homesick,” because I’m honestly not sure if I am. I miss my house, yes, and Omaha, but I miss my mom more. It was with her that I would carve pumpkins and hand out treats to neighborhood children, with her I would watch Peanuts specials and decorate. It was with her that I would decorate Christmas cookies, go shopping, sing carols and contemplate yet another theme for the Christmas tree.

I am surviving, true; and I don’t think about home constantly. I miss my mom, but I think what I am truly homesick for is college life. A life of spontaneity and rendezvous, of late nights and movies and bowling and wine-and-cheese parties.

That, and I always had the option of going home.

For Halloween this year, I went out and purchased a few bags of candy, eager to greet trick-or-treaters. The apartment complex offered door hangers and decorations to attract them and encouraged residents to participate.

At 8:00, I took the bowl of candy into my own hands and began nibbling on Twix and Snickers bars.

At 10:00, I started to cry.

Hans, sensing my heartbreak, came over from the couch and hugged me. “I’m so sorry no one came,” he said, squeezing me.

“It’s so much more than just that,” I wheezed through sobs.

“I know, I know,” he repeated, rocking me. “I know. I know this isn’t your house. I know this isn’t your home. I know I’m not your mom, I know I’m not your friends. I know your cat isn’t here. I know we don’t have television. I know that there are so many things here that you can’t do.” He rocked me, hugged me. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I finally pulled away from him, my face damp with hot tears that still flooded my eyes. “I didn’t think I would miss home this much.” I shook my head, glancing around at the wall, the ceiling, the wall, the floor, the wall. I sucked in a breath of air. A quiet pause, then a sigh. “I didn’t know.”

In the six weeks I have been here, I have been anything but happy. The threatening cloud of unemployment has hung about me, much like the dark, menacing ones do to characters in depression commercials. I’m worried about money, about loans and phone bills. Even our short jaunt to Georgia was stressful because we knew what awaited us back in Greenfield—an empty apartment and a tortuous inner city job.

When thinking of how to address our current issues, I debate over how much to share. I want to be honest, but I do not want to be hyperbolic, either. Truly, our troubles are no worse than others’—there are people, like myself, who are unemployed. There are people who dislike their jobs, who are unable to pay bills. There are people more desolate and discouraged than I, which is precisely why I don’t ask for sympathy. I ask only for your patience in reading my thoughts, which are clearly frustrating and circular. However, I do not wish to fake happiness, to post only the “good things.” This, to me, is a journal; in the end, I want to remember my honesties, my struggles and triumphs, my thoughts and musings.

In other words, I am frustrated with what I have been dealt at this moment. I can’t tell you what will happen tomorrow, next week, or in two months. I can tell you, however, that there is still many a thing to be grateful for, starting with those whom I love.

I could not have asked for a better mother, one who makes “Welcome Home” signs and can still make me laugh voraciously from 600 miles away. I could not have asked for a more inspirational and loving brother.

I could not have asked for better friends. They hug me without question, offer baked goods and couches and provide me with comfort and entertainment, both virtual and personal. They know me—know that I hate onions, love Oreos, am never without ChapStick and have the potential to become a crazy cat lady.

I could not have asked for a boyfriend, who, after his worst days at work, never fails to compliment me. I, hair uncombed and clad in sweatpants, receive a hug and the words “You’re so beautiful.”

I could not have asked for a better home to go to for Thanksgiving—for last year, for this year, for any year. In the end, it doesn’t really matter if that home is in Iowa, Indiana, Australia, Timbuktu. It’s not important if I’m unhappy with work or money; all that really matters is if I’m happy with those I’m with.

West LaFiesta

2011-11-15T11:02:00.002-05:00

Though the main reason I went back to West Lafayette this weekend was to take part in an early Thanksgiving dinner with friends, I took advantage of the several hours I had to myself. I wandered the Horticulture Park, which was enlivened with reds and yellows and greens. My feet lead me to campus next, where I patrolled my old haunts before cruising through "downtown."

Unlike my last visit to Purdue, I didn't feel old (until my friends teased me for being 23 and "half in the grave"). Silly underclassmen.

No; instead of feeling old and reminiscent, I felt at home. Everything was familiar; the one-way streets, the beeping of the electronic crosswalks. A handful of students crossed the Memorial Mall, making their way toward coffee houses and libraries to divulge in last-minute, weekend studying. The wind stung my face, pushed dirt into my eyes and ears and clouded my senses. So familiar and yet so far away.

My time there is no more; for, if I do decide to attend graduate school, the path I wish to choose is not available at Purdue. For now, though, my friends give me reason to go back; I think my familiarity with campus, with people, with West Lafayette, with the university and faces upon faces of thousands of students will dissipate once my friends leave.

Then it will be strange.

Monday Scribbling--November 14

2011-11-14T08:27:00.003-05:00

My mom works at the local clubhouse as a cook. Witty and entertaining, she decided to scribble on the pan of freshly rolled hamburger.

Location: Treynor Recreation Area, Treynor, Iowa

Comparing Playgrounds

2011-11-12T13:55:00.006-05:00

Soon, I will leave for Purdue, a school whose campus and residence halls and unexplored hallways hosted me for two years. However, unlike the Breakfast Clubbers and football fanatics, I’m driving the two hours north to spend time with friends, creating and eating an early Thanksgiving dinner.

When the option to do so was bought to my attention earlier this week, I called my mom, eager to share good news with her.

“You need to go,” she told me. “I think you need to go and spend time with your friends.” She sighed, a heavy breath of nostalgia exiting her lips. “When I was your age, I always wanted to do something like that. I always thought that family holidays were boring, an obligation. It was never any fun feeling forced to go to someone else’s house and watch TV or sit and play cards or … sit. I just wanted to have fun, you know? To laugh, to talk, to … have fun!”

She spoke of the boy-space-friend she had just before meeting my dad, and how he would bring a smile to her face no matter the occasion, no matter the location. “We could just sit around and joke. He always made me happy.”

I listened patiently, dreaming of overcrowded couches, dishes of food, glowing lamps, laughter, the clink of toasting wine glasses, sly glances, smirks, winks, colorful sweaters and music and friendship.

“I’m definitely going to go, mom.”

The last time I saw my “Purdue friends” was nearly a month ago at a morning tailgate that celebrated both Homecoming and my return to Indiana. People I hadn’t seen in months—hadn’t talked to or laughed with since my last weeks at The Exponent—ate bacon and sausage and eggs with us. We drank orange juice, sipped hot cider.

I missed these people.

I missed their antics, their unexpected treasures and gimmicks.

I missed hugs and inside jokes about imaginary ponies. I missed office gossip and spontaneity.

After the tailgate, Hans and I strolled around campus, feeling old.

“Gosh, I miss campus,” he gushed. We walked through the Engineering Mall, watching students and families, squirrels and skateboarders. He squeezed my hand, which was already entwined with his, a little harder. “Do you remember … ”

And so, as we pushed past visitors and alumni, freshman and international students, we spoke of our meeting, of the snowy and sunny days. We reminisced about each building, talking about chemistry classes and Italian exams.

“Remember when you used to meet me in Armstrong after class?”

I smirked. “Remember when you would walk me to mine?”

“Remember when you came to my Psychology class?”

“Remember when I’d find you asleep in Potter?”

“I used to … ”

“When I was in the fraternity … ”

“When I first visited campus … ”

“I still love that bell tower … ”

“My first class … ”

“I can tell you … ”

“Remember?”

“I remember.”

“I can’t … ”

“I can’t believe, either.”

“I can’t believe we’re not here anymore.”

“ … I miss campus.”

“ … I miss friends.”

It isn’t painful, readjusting to a new lifestyle; it is just challenging. It is challenging to bring to Indiana only some clothes, my computer, a couple towels and a single book. For the last two years, I have had the amenities of a residence hall at hand—readily-made dinner, inexpensive laundry. Now I suffice with leftovers and four weeks’ worth of dirty clothes. It’s more than the simple things, though—it is the fact that my scenery is different, that the people are different. The only familiar face in Greenfield is that of my boyfriend, and the scenery that I often see is that of the post office, the nearby Walmart and the paths between. The wildlife I am exposed to doesn’t scurry across the sidewalks, its bushy tail twitching. Rather, it waddles slowly around the ponds and apartments, quacking at all hours and begging for bread crumbs.

I think the biggest change, though, is knowing that this isn’t temporary. A headache is temporary. Beanie Babies were temporary. College was temporary. I grew accustomed to thinking, “I would be home for break,” or “I’ll see mom in about a month or so.”

Now? Now I’m not so sure.

Admittedly, on bad days, I think about packing up my clothes, computer, towels and book and driving the 600 miles home, where I can walk the streets of Omaha—a city whose buildings, parks, streets and businesses have always captivated me. I can stroll the Old Market, pick up an antique photograph from one store, a soft-serve ice-cream from another. I can rest my feet, weary from walking the cobbled streets, on the benches designed specifically and exquisitely for the city. They’re not simple wooden seats, these benches, but artistic creations that swoop and swirl in design and hilarity. And, unlike the creek-side ones here in Greenfield, they don’t carry carvings that bear my mother’s name and provide an unwilling and unforeseen reminder of what’s not here.

There are so many things to get used to. Here, I hear the southern accent more often than not. Here, winters are milder and farmers gather their crops late in the season. Here, the infrequent hills have names, have no reason to be terraced and do not sweep over and through the pastures and into the horizon.

Everyday buildings look different, too; they boast in architecture, in design, in history and memories.

My feet find different places to explore and pause; they are in control—I force them to stop out of sheer mental exhaustion, for there is too much to see and capture and record when going at too quickly a pace. Am I searching for something? Something familiar, perhaps; something that reminds me of my hometown and, for once, leaves me without comparisons.

There are some things I still see—I see colors, vivid and extraordinary—and I see little things-things that the eye may find ordinary and inane.

When I was a toddler, my mom purchased a used swing set that we toted between two homes. There were two swings, a double swing, a slide. My brother and mom would often push me; mom was cautious, but Keith concerned himself with how high his little sister could soar. On my sixth birthday, my friends and I played games outside next to the slide, where we later stacked atop one another and smiled cheesily for a photograph.

A couple of years later, my dad outdid himself and purchased one of those huge wooden sets, one with a loft and a sandbox and a ladder. I can remember sitting in the sandbox with my dad’s basset hound, a lovable dog whose ears didn’t hinder her from snapping at and devouring flies. I can also remember attempting a slumber party in the loft with my step-sister, a girl four years my senior. We cuddled our blankets, attempted to find comfort on, no matter the number of sleeping bags, the hard, cold, wooden boards. After a few hours, we retired and went inside, instead snuggling with pillows and warmth.

I was in fourth grade when my elementary school redid its blacktop and also installed a new playground, a red, white and blue structure with various levels and numerous slides. My classmates and I would play tag, racing beneath the steps and climbing up the coiled metal staircase. We would dangle from the monkey bars, swing and swing and swing and JUMP with a happy and satisfactory lurch into the pea gravel.

It was always fun, having time to play. It’s harder now, to find laughter and joy when I still haven’t adjusted to full-time “Hoosier life.” For me, it’s easier to say that after years of swings and slides and play-sets and sandboxes … that I’m just not used to this particular playground quite yet.

Home

2011-11-10T14:08:00.007-05:00

Normally, the shrill BEEP BEEP BEEEEEP of the boyfriend's blaring-ly loud alarm clock disrupts my sleep, my wishful dreaming. I sleep most deeply in the early hours of waking, when the gray glove of morning slips its fingers through the slits of the blinds and makes light the blank, white walls. Drunk with drowsiness, I will watch his shadowy form quietly glide across the carpet and into the hall. I will listen for the gurgle and groan of pipes as water flows through and expands them, bursting through the shower head with hot vigor.

I sleep.

This morning, however, the alarm did not protest my slumber. Hans awoke before it shuddered and screamed and got ready in the quiet darkness of the apartment. I barely remember our parting.

Like always, I remain in bed, half-asleep and casually dreaming of nonsense. He will come in, creep to the bedside and kiss my forehead, my cheek. "I love you," he'll whisper quietly. He will attempt to hug my limp form, and my arm--tingly and useless--may reach up and accidentally slap into his ear. I mumble a response, something that sounds like, "Uh wuf yut oo." He'll stroke my head, petting me, smoothing my hair behind my ears and away from my face. My eyelids flicker, then close, and our last embrace leaves me with textural memories--the smoothness or stretch of his shirt, the damp warmth on my forehead from a lingering kiss.

I remember nothing from this morning, other than the mysterious feeling that I was at home, in Iowa, in my own queen-sized bed. I was lying at an angle, crossways across the sheets, feeling comfortable and drowsy and reminiscent. Home.

The wind scratched at the roof, fluttering shingles and shredding leaves from trees. That’s the backyard, I told myself. That’s the trees scratching and begging for nature to stop its breezy torment. I opened my eyes briefly, expecting to see a closet door and a black entertainment center. Reality momentarily stopped my breath; a white door and an oak dresser stood at the foot of the bed.

Not home.

I’ve had unforeseeable difficulty in adjusting to a full-time lifestyle in Indiana. I wouldn’t jump so far as to call it, “hardship,” because I am holding steady; I cook, I eat, I read, I go grocery shopping, I search for publishing jobs, I blog. My schedule is nearly identical to the one I had before I drove the eleven hours here. However, it’s harder this time.

Much harder.

For twenty-three years, I lived with my mom in a one-story dilapidated bungalow. My brother moved out six years ago and now lives an hour and a half away with his new wife. Each time he visited the house he pitied me and mom, who tried to joke about the absurdity of the collapsing ceilings, asbestos roof tiles and electrifying basement light switch we had named “Sparky.”

“You guys shouldn’t be here,” he would say. “It’s not healthy.”

Quite true, but we didn’t have other options. We were poor, like we’ve always been, and found ways to make do with closets sans the ceilings, with 200,000-mile cars and, for awhile, without running water. Despite the condition of our house and our finances, I still loved being there; it was home. It was the house I had lived in since I was six years old, a first grader obsessed with The Lion King, as well as the number of outlets each room had. Indeed, just before my family moved in, Michelle and I crept through each room, counting.

“Should we count that?” she asked, pointing at what I would later learn was the phone jack.

“I don’t think so,” I responded. “It doesn’t look like the other ones.”

We knelt on the carpet of what was to my bedroom. Our pants scraped along the shag carpet, which grew in various lengths depending on how blue, green, brown or black it was.

“Can you believe we’ll be living next door?” I asked her excitedly. I looked down at the carpet, twirling it with my fingers. I was slightly embarrassed to show her how happy I truly was.

Seventeen years later, I’m still happy to call that brown-except-for-the-two-corners-of-the-east-wall-that-we-couldn’t-reach-while-painting house home. It is where I went after each semester, where I wanted to stay when I needed a break, where I slept and woke, hosted a Halloween party, roasted hot dogs and s’mores on one surprisingly warm Thanksgiving Day and spent thousands of mornings getting ready or sleeping in or watching the sunrise from the kitchen window. There are memories; seventeen years’ worth of them—good and bad, melancholy and sappily emotional.

Despite having spent the last two years of my college career at a large state university, I never met another Iowan at Purdue. I knew dozens of people from Chicago, hordes from Indiana, of course, and a handful from California (to whom I had the pretentious honor of explaining detasseling). I met individuals from Texas, Michigan, Delaware and New Jersey. I had a roommate from Kentucky, an R.A. from Connecticut. I worked, had classes, interacted and met with people from Italy, France, India, England, Australia and Malaysia.

Not once did I ever find another person from Iowa. Not once did I see another license plate with white, rolling clouds and a blue sky, a county name scribbled across the bottom in navy.

Some may have felt isolated; I embraced it. “Oh HA.ha,” I would dryly coo when hearing another joke about the abundance of corn and cows, but the lack of electricity and Internet. “Is it like heaven?” someone would ask, referencing Field of Dreams. I would deliberately and directly skip what they sought, telling them that “I’ve actually been to Dyersville. It’s pretty cool.” The questioner would then ask me about the set, the size, the people. “What’s it like?”

What is it like?

I would tell them about the fields, the endless fields that, unlike Indiana and Illinois, roll with hills and definition and terraces. I would tell them about how endless the sky seems when you are atop a bluff, watching the Missouri sweep beneath you at a fast, murky pace. I would tell them that the sun, a golden glow, deepens the yellows and reds and oranges of the crops, basking them with a light that changes by the minute, by the hour, by the season. In winter, a dusty white blankets millions of acres of land, untouched and virginal. Ice coats the fences, teasing us with small icicles and frozen wonders. In the spring, the roads are paved with dirt from the fields, from the farmers desperate to get an early start. In the spring, there are promises of a successful season and a high cost per bushel as each green sprout pushes it way through the dark, rich earth and into life. And, in the summer, hills are lush and vivid, emerald with corn that towers above the heads of those who walk the rows.

I would tell them that there is always something to discover—that there is always an unexplored barn, a forgotten schoolhouse, an abandoned quarry, a haunted house. I would tell them that, in the evening, just before the sun levels with the horizon, that the orange glow makes everything, even the smallest or most appalling things, seem beautiful and warm and intriguing.

I would tell them that the grass is soft beneath my feet, that it tickles my toes and massages my soles. I would tell them that, in the early hours of morning, dew paints each individual blade, causing backyards and front yards and fields to sparkle and shine. I would tell them about the humid summers, the frigid winters, how the temperature can span from ten below zero to one hundred and ten within the same reason.

I would tell them that I love it; that perhaps, in the balance between dreamy skies and evening radiance, that there may be a sort of heaven here.

Iowa is the only place where I’ve found highly-sought, highly-photographed solitary trees. Iowa is the only place where I can hop a fence and stroll through the fields, enjoying a solitary, reflectively loving moment that I am sure my Californian friends feel on their own ground 1,600 miles away. I respect that they—along with the dozens of others who have questioned “Why Iowa?”—do not understand that I see more than crops, animals, boots, barns and farms.

I see home.

I see childhoods and memories, former railroads and homes over a century and a half old. I walk the Pioneer Trail, frequent the Lewis & Clark Monument, drive over Union Pacific tracks and wrap myself in history and restoration and development. I breathe dusty, husky air that stifles the lungs in summer, but refreshes the nose with a cold crispness in winter. I see sunshine and sunsets, deer in my backyard, foxtails along the fence line. I see an endless potential for growth and rebirth, a season of rotations and tillings and harvests that seem to accelerate and age as quickly as I do.

It’s the only place where I have witnessed that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

What is it like?

............................................ Look.

First Attempt

2011-11-09T11:25:00.005-05:00

Angsty and armed with a camera, I asked anyone from my hometown region if they would be interested in a miniature photo shoot. It was September, a gorgeous month, and I was in need of practice. I am most familiar with objects and old buildings, abstractions and oddities. What I attempt to capture are the small things, the inane and everyday sights and sounds that we see, but not fully acknowledge. However, not everyone is interested in the intricacies of soybeans, the small town graffiti you find in unexpected places, and the not so recognizable photos that make you go, "Yes ... but, what is it?" I knew I needed experience--lots of it, truthfully--and so I was delighted when my cousin offered to be a model.

Having said that, here are a few of the results of my first-ever portrait session.

My Neighbor, My Friend

2011-11-08T08:46:00.003-05:00

I had the same best friend for twelve years.

She and I lived next door, our bedrooms separated by a driveway and a narrow strip of grass on which we once posed, awkwardly and ecstatically, in the D.A.R.E. T-shirts we had worn for graduation that day. As children, we spent our afternoons together playing with Barbies and Beanie Babies. We colored. Ate Ho-Hos. Watched Arthur. As teens, we shared books and secrets, wrapped Christmas presents together in the warmth of her large, upstairs bedroom. Snow would drift from the sky and pass her west-facing windows, cascading into a yard that, come 6:00, I would cross to reach my own front door.

I can tell you that, one year, out of curious amusement and utmost silliness, I entertained her with Styrofoam packing peanuts. We were juniors, maybe sophomores in high school. We were wrapping presents in her room, comparing the gifts that our group of friends always bought each other. I reached for a packing peanut, one of many from an opened box on the floor. Several of the peanuts decorated the beige carpet on which we sat, cross-legged. The packing peanut, springy and cushiony, bounced between my thumb and index finger. Two inches from my face, I watched its fibers, its molecules, its construction and makeup stretch and relax, strain and pulsate.

POOOMMPH!

In respective synthetics and giggles, both the packing peanut and Michelle exploded.

Now, five years after high school, we live entirely separate lives. She, a blond-haired young woman who has developed penchants for running, biking and knitting, now holds a full-time job in Wisconsin (which gets points for its level of “outdoorsiness,” but loses rapport for its harsh winters and subsequent lack of sunshine). We do not speak to each other very often anymore. The words we do exchange are merely those which everyone sees—a status, a photo, a witticism shared on Twitter. Our virtual musings, no longer shared in confidence, are the only illustrations of our friendship, which—to me, anyway—mysteriously diffused between the hallways and hobbies and boyfriends of senior year.

I understand that it is easy to grow out of friendships. A friendship can end when a person changes. A person’s failure to change can also end a friendship. Some, admittedly, are fickle; we tend to bide our time, building references and networks and acquaintances who provide a good word, an open door, a chance compliment. Our efforts subside after our interactions prove selfishly beneficial. Relationships form for a variety of reasons as well; we hold our friends close, our family closer and are encouraged to keep enemies within arm’s reach. We joke with co-workers, soothe our grandparents’ fears about the economy. Each bond that is created finds its strength in something—be it tangible or philosophical—and we eagerly seek ways to cultivate that bond so that it is, at all times, reminiscent of the beginning.

Friendships can also occur out of necessity; for me and my neighbor, it may have been out of proximity.

I am unsure why our friendship ended. I know only that, senior year, I began walking to school alone, sullenly staring at the ground while my neighbor—a girl whose company I once held into the late hours of summer, when the soles of our feet would blacken—accepted a ride from a parent. The family mini-van would rush past me, stirring leaves and dust from the street and choking me, blinding me.

I didn’t understand.

For years, we had been best friends. We learned how to ride our bikes on the same day. We watched television and movies, read books and online memes. On the days she brought her trombone home, I willingly carried it for her. I introduced her to California Diaries, a series that encouraged both of us to read a book a day. She taught me how to play Ocarina of Time (which, on one January afternoon, caused me to barge into my own house, arm raised and shouting triumphantly, “I BEAT DODONGO!”).

Since high school, my memories have softened nearly as much as the photographs have blurred. I remember bits and pieces of our friendship—one fueled by competition, Avril Lavigne, over-sized glasses, a shared interest in Beadie Babies and the phrase “opposites attract.” I can tell you that we used to play in her walk-in closet, a space ten feet long and three feet wide. I can tell you that we avidly detailed the lives of stuffed animals and Ty Warner creations in the cardboard-box city I had created along two walls of my bedroom. I can tell you that I was fascinated by her pet fish, and that, every year after Christmas, we would wait to call each other until December 27. I can even tell you that one December 27 in particular was spent in what later became her family’s “computer room” (because, at the time, her bedroom was being remodeled and was without walls and a floor).

I can tell you that the day she left for Europe, I cried. Simultaneously jealous and happy of her travels, I knew I would miss her company, her giggles, her freckles. I had sent with her a disposable black-and-white camera, requesting only that she take photos for me. Years later, I still have the pixel-ized photos of London, Paris and the Matterhorn. The small Eiffel Tower statue she brought back for me is still in my possession as well, and it is one of the few things I tote with me when I switch between the states. It’s a reminder of how much larger the world is beyond my small hometown. It’s a reminder that it is bigger than Iowa, bigger than Indiana, bigger than the roads between. It’s a reminder of a friendship—a relationship that I affectionately look back at, but look back at with aching sentimentality.

I can tell you that, after high school, after we went to our respective colleges, we still remained aware of each other’s presences. It was awkward, though; we would see each other leave and arrive, accept company and phone calls on porches. But we never spoke to each other. Twelve years of community friendship had somehow dissipated, which is why I prefer to reminisce about the years spent in sandboxes and Halloween costumes, at swimming pools and playgrounds.

I can tell you that we read Animorphs and colored Lion King images. I can tell you that we switched lockers sophomore year because mine was vandalized. I can tell you that, in my own room, in my house, I wept for her grandfather’s death. I can tell you that I didn’t know what to say or do, other than offer her and her sister Beanie Babies—a toy so comforting and familiar that I hoped it would somehow soothe the pain of his passing.

Most of all, however, I can tell you about the summers—about the late nights chasing fireflies and fireworks, watching sunsets in the church parking lot while casually licking at melting popsicles. Our toes would be gritty with sand from the hours we had spent in the sandboxes. Feet black from tree climbing and bike riding, we would sit on the cement and stare and imagine and tease and dream.

I miss that.

I miss her.

I believe that she is one of the smartest people I know, and that she is living up to the “Most Likely to Succeed” expectations from our yearbook. In truth, I think about her often because it is difficult to reminisce about my childhood without evoking the imagery of our companionship. Indeed, after sifting through spy logs and entrepreneurial craft lists this summer, I found but one thing that made me simultaneously smile and ache. Smile for the nostalgia, for the silliness of overgrown bangs and a cotton camaraderie on a mid-summer’s evening.

Ache for very much the same reasons.

Monday Scribbling--November 7

2011-11-07T08:16:00.004-05:00

Now that hunting season has rolled around, I think it's appropriate to share this farmer's not-so-obvious sign.

Location: L55, just east of McClelland, Iowa

A Walk in The Park

2011-11-05T18:38:00.005-04:00

I almost quit blogging.

I almost quit thinking about it. I felt like giving up. I nearly logged into Dashboard and went through the motions—the simple, yet slightly hidden steps necessary to erase two and a half years’ worth of memories and scribbles and pictures and words and images and comments and ramblings.

I nearly did it.

The feeling intensified after Aura, a blogger whose posts I have followed since 2009, “Jumped Ship.” She was beautiful. Her words were beautiful. Each post was filled with dozens of images of her life in Oklahoma, her travels about the country, her family. She was enriching, engaging, inspiring. I held to each of her words, my imagination soaked in imagery.

She spoke the truth.

I listened.

“The land of blogs and Twitter and Pinterest are places where some people spend hours searching for inspiration, direction, and a pretty picture of what they want their life to be. But they are also places of dishonesty, self-denial, and jealousy. There are so many voices out there, that sometimes it becomes difficult to hear your own over the loud hum of ten thousand photos telling you what you are supposed to wear and eat and think. An open invitation to compare yourself and fall short. It is overwhelming, and over the last few months I have had to question where my own voice was heading with this outside influence.”

It’s relatable and understandable, her thoughts. With each new branch of social media, we are forced to embrace a piece of our pasts—pieces that we have attempted to forgive, box up, rip out, grow from, learn from or forget. When confronted with our actions, we are shamed or embarrassed. We shudder to think of how we turned our backs on change and instead ran with open arms to that which we found most comforting.

It is easy to be caught and stuck, wriggling and squirming, in virtual webs. We spend hours on Pinterest, Facebook, Twitter, and excuse our “stalking” and “researching” and “learning” and “browsing” and “buying” and “shopping” as necessary addictions.

I, too, spent late hours scheduling posts. I would “research” images, browse blogs and biographies for “inspiration” that was, and still is, unnecessary. I scheduled memes, three a week, for months ahead of time. I stalked photography sites for stunning photos, not bothering to breathe for a moment, pause—just for one, two, three seconds—and truly examine what I was looking at.

What I ended up with was a collection of meaningless posts; information that was not special to me. I was not proud of what I was doing; I was exhausted and overwhelmed, eager to please non-existent followers and a blogging community that had already cemented itself in comparisons. Obsessed with numbers and giveaways and posts and tweets, I became discouraged, and saw in myself only insecurities and short-comings.

I wasn’t happy with my voice because it wasn’t my voice that I was using. It was the voice of others—of the dozens and hundreds and thousands of other bloggers, photographers, writers and thinkers—that I was trying to emulate.

I was taking a walk in the park when I realized that things to change.

In fact, they already had.

I had packed my car full of belongings, clothes mostly, and driven 12 hours to Indiana with the hopes of securing a position. Soon after, my hopes, though not crushed, were humbled. Again, I find myself in an unemployed, vulnerable position—one that gives me time to peruse the likes of social media.

There are so many wonderful things—photos, ideas, words, beliefs. There are wonderful people as well, but sometimes it is necessary to sift through the selfish “I’LL FOLLOW YOU BACK IF YOU FOLLOW ME” requests. It is disheartening to see these queries, because you are quickly and bluntly reminded that it is not the content, but the numbers, that individuals consider.

In her last post, Aura wrote that “life lived when not a single person is looking is quite different than this online world. Things move a lot slower, quieter, and more simply. Days are longer, we speak softer, and somehow all those lost minutes of the day come together to form an extra hour or two to focus on the things that really matter.”

In the park, these words brushed across my forehead in the breeze, became tangled in my curls. They bounced off my cheeks, swirled around my feet as I crunched across leaves and wet grass. Days are longer. Simpler. Slower. Quieter. I stood near the banks of Riley’s “old swimmin’ hole” and watched as a mother and her two young sons paraded about the playground. Up the slides. Down the slides. Run. Run. Race up the steps. Jump. Run. Fall into the mulch. Giggles and laughter and smiles. Happiness.

I smiled, looking at my boots, damp with morning dew and delicately spaced between geese feathers. There were several of the birds in the water, elegantly gliding and speaking to each other in a comforting, glottal language. The trees were yellow, golden with sunlight and cloaked in a mystical, mesmerizing fog.

Children laughed. Ducks waded into the water. A leaf fell. A highlighted, ringing pitch of sunlight brushed past my ear. I watched another golden leaf drift downward, slowly, floating for just a moment before settling onto the ground with other forgotten, aged leaves. Simpler. Slower. Quieter. Peaceful.

It was so peaceful.

I knew what I had to do.

Gone were the inane posts, the pessimistic thoughts from my first months of blogging. Gone were the negative associations, the pointless ramblings, the repetitive Wednesday-Friday memes.
Two-hundred and twenty posts … gone.

… it was liberating …

Feet

2011-11-01T18:04:00.003-04:00

Monday Scribbling--October 31

2011-10-31T02:09:00.004-04:00

This week's post concludes this month's series of photos from the Squirrel Cage Jail. Even though I had plenty of photos to make a month-long collection, there are still many more names at the Jail that I did not capture. The prisoners truly wrote their names wherever they could.

Mariell Amélie Revisited

2011-10-28T01:26:00.005-04:00

I posted some of Marielle Amélie's photos a couple of weeks ago. I chose to revisit her because she has several haunting photos that seemed appropriate, given the approaching Halloween holiday.

They are stalkingly skeletal, frighteningly captured. Frozen moments of solitude and fear and solemness. Particular photos mimic infamous scenes from Stephen King's imagination, while others entice and frolic with the dead.

I find her photos beautifully spooky, creepily stunning.

Antiquing in Alpharetta

2011-10-25T21:43:00.011-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, the boyfriend and I made a quick trip to Georgia to visit family. While we only spent four full days there, we frequented twice as many antique and vintage shops, where I tried on clothes (but without success). I fell in love with a mustard-colored chair at "Classy Clutter," a crowded store with American Girl dolls and an often over-looked babushka doll.

(Looking at this photo, though, I see a problem. Clearly, the original owner of this Molly doll also owned a Samantha doll. That being said, MOLLY SHOULD NOT BE WEARING SAMANTHA'S SCHOOL OUTFIT. American Girl blasphemy, that is.)

There was a vintage, '50s kitchen table that I would have enjoyed using as a desk, but I knew I would not be able to afford it. I carried an antique handbag with me for a few moments before deciding against it, instead turning my attention to hats and jewelry.

Vintage canisters? I liked them. Antique cameras? I drooled.

I really like old "stuff." Though I prefer collectibles and "vintage" over antique (especially when it comes to furniture), I still appreciate it all. Older pieces are, without a doubt, better constructed; I just dislike the look of antique wood grain. When it comes down to it, I would much rather buy a set of interesting-looking dinnerware from an antique store than put it on my wishlist at Pampered Chef or Bed, Bath and Beyond or WalMart or Target or Banana Republic or wherever people think they need to register these days. Plates with a past trump dishes without one.

There was one booth that was filled with toys. Actually, the woman had so many toys that they spilled over and into the hallway, taking over two separate spaces. However, I loved her small, crowded, colorful corner. There was an old cardboard cash register that I immediately recognized; I had played, quite literally, with the same product at my grandmother's house when I was a child.

I truly underestimated Georgia's fascination with cats; there were collectibles everywhere.

OVERPRICED HEAVEN.

Nothing says "Welcome to the South" like old-fashioned racism.

Also, I loved this wallpaper. It's not from Georgia, but it was plastered in a century-and-a-half-old house, so it counts.

Also, this is not how you spell "Hoosier." ... See? I just spelled it. And, as there is no little red squiggly line beneath the letters, I know I'm right. A "Hoosh-eye-ire" cabinet just sounds like a badly constructed, knock-off repository.

Even though I walked away practically empty handed (I bought two rings, totaling $10), I enjoyed wandering the aisles; I got a taste of what I like (tin canisters from the 1940s) and dislike (clunky, chunky oak cabinets). I can't wait to a) decorate my own house, b) have money to decorate my own house and c) have the ability to watch The Food Network again.

It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!

2011-10-25T15:49:00.008-04:00

Fall/autumn/the changing of the leaves is my favorite season. I love the colors, the sounds, the smells. Yellows and oranges burn against the branches of trees and glow in the mellow sunshine. Flames from backyard bonfires lick and stretch their heat upward and outward. Cocoons are discovered, brown leaves are crunched upon. A haze settles over the prairies, dusty from combines and tractors and fields and harvests. There are pumpkins, mums, lavenders, leaves. Hot dogs and brats, marching bands and tailgates.

When I was a child, I would dress in my costume hours before it was necessary. I would layer it, planning to keep warm in the chilly, late-October evenings. Costumed or athletic--it didn't matter, really--my shoes would munch and crunch and grind down the leaves on sidewalks. I would scuffle across their crumbs as I retreated with a pillowcase of candy, the crinkling paper rustling.

At night, I would cuddle on the couch with my mother, sniffing pumpkin spice candles and poking at the autumnal decorations. She and I would each unwrap a piece of candy, our feet on the coffee table. "NEXT UP," the TV would proclaim, "CHARLIE BROWN'S HALLOWEEN SPECIAL."

Years later, we still maintain the "I got a rock" joke.

"What did you get at the mall? Anything?"

"Well, you know. I got a rock."

"Your mother, Miss Geraldine, gave me 'stuff' again. I got slippers and microwavable soup. What did she give you?"

A pouting face, lips barely concealing a smile. "I got a rock."

It's a truly versatile statement, really. It can be used as a response to the following statements:
-- "What did you get at the grocery store?"
-- "What did you order online, again?"
-- "Can you tell me what you got Jimmy for his birthday?"
-- "Did you bring home any souvenirs from your visit to New Zealand?"
-- "What did the doctor say you've got?"
-- "You wanna fight? YOU WANNA FIGHT? I got a knife!"

17,329 Pages in a Year

2011-10-24T11:51:00.003-04:00

In the middle of the night, in the middle of August, I sent the boyfriend a text.

Of all the belongings I have, the books mean the most to me. I am sitting on my floor, at the foot of my bed, going through them. I remember so many. I remember how I would sit while reading, and how I would have an Oreo in hand. These things brought me so much joy, and I am nearly in tears thinking about how much they mean to me and how much I want to share them with my kids someday.

It's true.

elinkan

popped collars are not for scholars

Long before college, when I was three, my mother patiently turned pages of Dr. Seuss rhymes and Berenstain Bears stories. It was then—on the green shag carpet that spread across the living room—that my love of literature began.

misako mimoko

With the gradual additions of chapter books in elementary school, American classics in high school and literary theories in college, my attitude towards literature has matured. I've learned to love everything I read, either for its glossy content, its picturesque words, its author's effort.

emma hope

rosiemusic

I used to read a book a week, back when I was lonely teenager. Shunned by my classmates for a lack of athleticism, I divulged into books and excelled in reading. I read Pulitzers, Newberys. I read and re-read Maniac MaGee and Bloomability. I went to midnight releases of Harry Potter and developed a fondness for 18th-Century Literature. I collected cookbooks, Barnes & Noble classics, American Girls.

the home is where the books are

signs and wonders

Now, they share shelves, pile against and atop one another. American Diaries. Ernest Hemingway. Giada De Laurentiis. Alexander Pope. Shakespeare By Another Name. Short stories. Poetry. Novels. Chapter books. Textbooks. They intermingle, their words and whispers crashing and creating a melee of emotion and knowledge.

jbalog24

Together, my books are the one thing I cannot and will not erase. I can box up old clothes, trash distant school papers and shred the unfortunate memories of a past relationship. I cannot, however, remove years and years and years of feelings and reactions and laughter and underlines and creases and dog-eared pages.

In fact, I refuse to.

~ tet ~

Missed Connections

I need that collection for my children someday, when I read to them. When my husband reads to them. When my mother reads to them. I want to pull a book off the shelf, one with a cracked spine and musty pages dated 1963, and read. Read and perform and voice and engage. Watch as their eyes grow wide, their mouths agape. They will question me, "Why this?" "Why that?" "What happens?"

tampax superstar

And I will say to them, "Just read."

New York Public Library

Monday Scribbling--October 24

2011-10-24T02:59:00.005-04:00

Continuing with the series of Squirrel Cage Jail scribblings...

Monday Scribbling--October 17

2011-10-17T11:53:00.004-04:00

I cannot precisely tell you where all of the scribblings are located, but I do know that the first two of this series are located on a picnic table on the ground level of the jail. The entirety of the table, the seats, the top, are covered in names and drawings.

Location: Squirrel Cage Jail, Council Bluffs, Iowa

In Life, Sometimes You Fall Down an Entire Flight

2011-10-16T10:07:00.002-04:00

Life is a little crazy right now. Last week, I moved *some* of my things from Iowa back to Indiana. I am trying to find a time when I can go back and pick up the rest of my things (you know, like furniture, because right now all I can do is make a bed/nest out of my clothes). I am looking to find a new apartment and plan to start my new job next week! To top things off, the boyfriend and I just got back from a short stay in Georgia, where we visited family. In other words, I have to be a big girl now. And screw Fergie, because BIG GIRLS DO CRY. I'm entering an entirely new part of life and am quite intimidated by the expectations.

And the power suits.

It's a stressful time, but it is exciting as well! I just have to take things one step at a time.

Thomas Hawk

Werner Schnell Images

Mariell Amélie

2011-10-14T01:17:00.004-04:00

The only description Mariell Amélie provides on her website are these two sentences:

"Mariell Amélie is a photographer based in London. Grew up on a small island in Northern Norway with her parents and a cat."

Frankly, it's enough for me. Her photos are girlishly beautiful. They're frosty, if that makes any sense. Frozen. Haunting. Lonely.

Monday Scribbling--October 10

2011-10-10T02:36:00.008-04:00

Last week, I shared some photos from the Squirrel Cage Jail. I'm continuing the series for the rest of October, as there are many an etching on the Jail's walls. This week's photos come from the Children's/Women's area of the Jail. (As men were most often the sole providers, sometimes the children and/or wives of a prisoner would also be housed at the jail in a special quarter.)

This Nunez person really wants us to know he was here.

This photo was actually taken on the main floor of the jail. I assume that it is a growth chart for the daughters of a jailer at some point in time.

Location: Squirrel Cage Jail, Council Bluffs, Iowa

I Did It Aaaaaaalll By Myself

2011-10-09T19:37:00.002-04:00

Pssh. Since when does thread cost only 45 cents?

Long story short, I got bored and made some necklaces.

First, I took my mom's old charm bracelet (which she received on her sixteenth birthday). There are things that depict her travels with my dad and her involvement with the Lutheran Church. She has charms that boast cheerleading, 4-H and musical accomplishments. Two charms celebrate the life of my brother (although the bracelet was long deserted by the time I was born).

Since my mom didn't know what to do with it, I asked for it. I knew that I could easily turn it into a necklace.

The first step in making the necklace was purchasing some delicate, quarter-inch ribbon. I cut two strands, both about 27 inches long. I took the ribbon strands and threaded them through the ends of the bracelet.

Making sure the ends were even, I tied a small knot in each ribbon strand. The knots helped keep the ribbon from fraying, as well as keep the bracelet from slipping off.

To wear the necklace, I just take the two knotted ends and tie them together behind my neck. The knotted ends make it easier to tie; instead of dealing with four loose ends, there are only "two."

The matchy-matchy look of the ribbon and my shirt was unintentional. (I just needed a V-neck to model.) I'm also curious if people will ask me about the "#1 Mom" charm on the necklace...

Once I had finished the first necklace, I was determined to make another out of old strands of pearl. Again, my mother was eager to toss her jewelry, so I grabbed it with the intent to make, yet again, another necklace.

This time, however, I used a thicker, 1-inch, satin ribbon. I cut two strands about 22 inches long.

As mom was getting rid of two separate necklaces, I laid them flat. I then strung a strand of ribbon on each "end," again pulling the ends through until they were even. The pearl necklaces then hung on the ribbon in a lovely "U" shape.

Instead of tying the ribbon, however, I sewed on a toggle clasp. I pulled one end of the ribbon strand through the link. After the end was through, I sewed it to the back of the other half of the ribbon. This way, when I wore the necklace, the seam would be hidden.

To give the necklace extra class, I took an antique pin I had found and hooked it onto the pearls.

Yes, that is my mom's cheerleading sweater from 1973.

Tickled Pink

2011-10-08T09:21:00.008-04:00

I'm in Indiana now. Yes, Indiana--the state from which I left months ago and to which my return was unsure. After 11 hours of driving, five pit stops, 626 miles and a time change, I'm here. I have no furniture, no bedding, no lamps or dressers or books or games. Instead, I have the necessities: I have clothes, rubber spatulas and duct tape.

I couldn't be happier, especially since I am now the owner of a spoon ring.

... let me back up.

Hans took me to the Riley Festival today, which we both greatly enjoyed. The day can best be summed up in these words: sore feet, countless vendors, well-timed photographs and a watered-down Mountain Dew. In other words, my Hoosier boyfriend welcomed me back to the Hoosier lifestyle by taking me to a festival celebrating the life and accomplishments of a famous Hoosier.

It was wonderful, and I'm tickled pink.