Collegiate Couture

One of my favorite blogs to follow is the Sartorialist [http://www.thesartorialist.com/].

It’s a fashion blog: street fashion, runway fashion, mostly expensive things but also random stuff edgy folks are wearing out on the street. Lovely, inspirational, and artsy (I’d put in a picture, but I’m afraid of copyright infringement…).

Yet, I am more likely to be seen wearing something like this:

I’m the one in the hat and the grandma top.

And this is even when I’m wearing something other than those darn acting blacks.

My friends will tell you that I hate wearing real pants (I go for those leggings that  everybody hates or yoga pants or something non-jeans).

More often than not, I slap on a sweater or some boots with the acting blacks, or a sweatshirt; essentially, looking cute takes too much time. Still, I check out the Sartorialist blog multiple times a day. When I have time, I try to put together an inspired ensemble. “Try” being the operative word here.

This is not a-typical of my college experience on a more macro scale. It seems that we keep learning and learning and yet aren’t able to fully apply the overwhelming amount of knowledge we’re obtaining until some random day when we can finally step away from all the craziness and- voila – we can suddenly make it all happen, almost effortlessly.

Of course, the odds of this happening with clothing are slim as my fashion sense is questionable, but I like to think that one of these days I, too, can be a haute-couture wearing fashionista.

Living in the world…with people…

“And every waking moment, we’re starting over.”  That’s what the song on my Pandora station is attempting to soothe me with tonight.  And, because I am in one of those cheesy, happy, reflective moods, it is working.  Good job Pandora, I am one of those people now.

See that? That attitude right there is why I need this cheesy, happy, reflective moment.  I need to regain perspective.  Sometimes it is easy to loose track of the good in the world and the good in the people rotating around the sun on this giant rock with us.  I spent much time this evening looking at pictures and videos of my friends and I from about this time last year, and I wondered – where has all my joy and contentedness gone?  Not that I am unhappy, I just seem to lack the love of people I had.  There are many terrible things happening in the world and it is important to be aware of those problems and fight to solve them, but this must be balanced.  I need to see the good in people, even in people with whom I disagree.  “Take the good, leave the bad” (from the mouth of Alex Johnson) – for my sanity’s sake. Many actions and words are backed by good intentions.  When you zoom out the general idea can be positive – it just gets muddied with words and turns into something hard to swallow.  It’s not easy, but if we can try to see each other in this big picture perspective there would probably be a lot more respect, love, and friendship between people of different backgrounds, beliefs, and lifestyles.  Instead of thinking I cannot believe that a person would do/say this, I should ask Why would a person do/say this?  What’s the reasoning?  Do they mean well?  Generally, the answer is yes.  It does not mean I agree with the person;  It does not mean I sanction their actions;  It just means I am human and they are human, and we can surely find some common ground with that starting point in mind.

So this moment, I choose to restart and readjust the way I look at people. . . . though, this may be more of a process than a moment-long adjustment.

Campbell Cemetery

Graveyards are the one place where people are allowed to be solemn because no one is expecting any different. Especially with depression being diagnosed nowadays as often as the common cold, people don’t allow themselves to be sad because sad now equals crazy. But, unafraid, I let the solemnity seep into my bones as I sat within the four, tall concrete walls of Campbell Cemetery.

The engravings on the outside wall told me that the gravesite has been here since the mid 1800s, a relic in my advanced city. I happened to stumble upon it while Geocaching with my friend, Ryan, from school; we plugged in the coordinates of the geocache, drove to the local Red Robin, parked, then followed the GPS to a section of woods I have never really noticed before although I had been there a million times. A beaten path led us straight to the rusted iron gate of Campbell Cemetery. Ryan pushed it open as the worn hinges squealed in disuse and we stepped inside the looming walls. Suddenly, I was overtaken with a calm, almost eerie feeling that I accredited to this magnificent graveyard. We carefully examined every tombstone as if it held secrets rather than the names and dates of death of these unknown people.

Ryan knelt down in front of one of the tombstones to pick up some of some fake flowers, dust them off, and straighten out their weathered petals to how they were supposed to look. I smiled because someone was careful enough to leave these artificial flowers; not real ones since they die, and a cemetery does not need any more death. I watched him in this completely subordinated position and asked why he was doing this for a complete stranger to which he replied, “Well, I would want someone to do this for me.” His response was so nonchalant and honest that I could only inwardly agree and step back to watch him finish his work.

Our presence gave the graveyard life where there was only death and ruin. No one makes it out of life alive, I thought, but then felt gloomy. But it was okay, because no one was expecting any more from me.

Things Good For the Soul

Fall is by far my favorite season, but there are only ever a few perfectly magical days of it.

I usually feel horribly guilty for not running out into the leaves and woods and communing with nature in all its magical glory.

This year was different. I went camping with a bunch of hippies out at Shades State Park, and we went hiking in those stunning woods. The smells of dirt, streams, and trees were ambrosia for the soul. It also made for some good Midsummer Fairy character research.

We also went to a Covered Bridge Festival in Rockville. On our way back we drove past some of the celebrated covered bridges, through Amish country.

Covered Bridge Fest

1950’s Saturday

This past weekend, I spent my Saturday night roller-skating and eating in a diner.  It was a 1950’s kind of night.  Except for the following:

1. The roller rink was not built in the 1950’s; it was built in the 70’s.  It still had the original carpet….and I think the original rink attendant.  She was probably around 80 years old, and very serious about her job.

2. We were the worst skaters there.  Children between the ages of four and fourteen were whizzing past us, spinning and skating backwards and moving in ways I can’t even move when I’m not on skates.  A couple of eight-year old girls befriended Talley and taught both of us how to spin.  [It wasn’t a very successful lesson.]

3.  Taylor, one of our friends, nearly won a game of roller-skating dodgeball.  His success stems from his strategic genius: he spent most of the game in the corner of the rink away from everyone else.  But that all ended pretty quickly when he happened to get ahold of a ball.  A ten-year old girl went whizzing past him and chucked it at her as hard as he could. So hard, in fact, that he fell down.  And yet he did not hit the girl.  Five minutes later, the same girl gets ahold of a ball.  She is on the other end of the rink, away from Taylor, surrounded by people she could hit.  But no, she extend the arm with which she is holding the ball and points at Taylor.  Taylor sees this and attempts to get away before she can make it across the rink.  The problem is Taylor is not that great of a skater so when he tried to accelerate too fast, it just kind of looked like he was running in place clumsily with a panicked expression on his face.  The girl makes it all the way across the rink and gets so close to Taylor that she does not even have to throw the ball; she simply reaches out and touches him with it.  It was fantastic to watch.

4. Lastly, we ate a combination of fried foods and banana pancakes at a 24-hour service diner.  This was also fantastic.

Chicken in America

I had a dream the other week that I immediately fell in love with:

My mother and another mother (who is unfamiliar to me) got into an argument. In order to settle said argument, they partook in a high stakes game of Chicken: Whomever’s child backed out first from the soon-to-be arranged marriage-lost.

My sister took me into a room and started to help me get into my wedding dress, which was a yellow and white checkered dress with a high waist and a beautiful hem. The white shoes that came with it were two sizes too big so I switched to a pair of brown oxfords. I coupled the odd shoes with a brown belt over where the dress gathered on my waist (I know I am being crazy specific, and I appologize for that, I just am amazed that I remembered this much from a dream!). My bouquet was composed of autumn colors and white roses. Needless to say, this whole ensemble was gorgeous.

My time came to walk down the makeshift aisle towards a man I had never met. When he came into view, I noticed he was wearing a suit that has been modeled after a peacock: his suit was light gray, his tie was a pale peacock feather print and his vest was light purple. It sounds a bit out there, but it totally worked for him.

I made it all the way to the alter before my groom finally uncle’d out and my mother won the disagreement.

Here is the thing about this dream, never ONCE did I feel like backing out of this arranged marriage. Not because I felt I owed it to my mother, not because I liked this guy, it was because I whole heartedly believed, at least in my dream state, that I could make this work. There is hope for me yet.

Just thought I would share this with you.

(P.S. If the title seems a little strange, it’s because I have done some research and concluded that most people are refered to our site because everyone google searches ‘America’. So if I include the word “America” in my title, maybe more people will read my post. Yes, I am aware I am genius!)

Organizing Romance (Control Freak? Maybe)

So I have this system that I use to name the people who wander into my life (in a romantic fashion).  For instance, I have had a boyfriend, a fling, and a counterpart (There are more, but these are the simpler names to understand).  I have found that many people find this system strange/silly/foreign.  I am going to attempt to explain myself in a practical, well thought out manner.  My verbal explanations never seem to work out.  They usually begin with me tripping over my thoughts as they pile onto each other in a nonsensical heap of reasons and end with the person which I am speaking to looking utterly confused. So here goes my logical (I think) written explanation:

The standard word for a male-type person with whom you have a romantic relationship is boyfriend.  Right? Right.  Okay, so I did that for a while.  I had a boyfriend.  That came and went and when it ended, it just didn’t feel right for me to use that term for anyone else.  I had associated that particular person and the role he played in my life with that word.  I felt that if I used boyfriend for someone else, that it wouldn’t be fair to the person who originally held that title.  I would just be pushing a new person into a spot that someone else used to fill.  I don’t like the idea that every person that I have a relationship is called by the same name.  That person is not replaceable.  I can’t just erase past loves (or “likes”) from my personal history by bringing in someone new.  So I call them different names.  I use a system that makes sense to me and that I feel is fair to everyone who was part of my life.

Did I just make sense?  I hope so.

The Insomniac City

The bare sign read “Rockefeller Place”.

She stared in wide-eyed wonder.

The insomniac city is clever,

crushing people together,

a maniacal pastry blender

whose blades you cannot escape.

 

The percussion of the pounding streets

echoed in the alleyways

with twists, turns and reverberations.

It seemed as if a noise maze

had sprung up to up heave this city

from the foundation it had,

to the destruction it will become.

 

She was new to this place,

(but already she figured it out.)

Her tired shoes knew the routes

although they were wrinkled, bruised and sad.

Her tongue pressed against her teeth

determined not to admit defeat,

for in time she has learned that

the insomniac city is clever,

crushing people together,

a maniacal pastry blender,

whose blades you cannot escape.

Stretching on a Sunday

This morning was for yoga.

The Park workout room is pretty awesome. It’s actually 3 rooms big, and includes an open area great for things like yoga. It also has a TV and a DVD player, which, we thought, would be great if we wanted to do an exercise DVD.

Our friend, Taylor, had a P90X yoga DVD, and we thought to ourselves, “this will be a good idea.” 

So we set up our yoga mats and popped the DVD into the player. Only apparently Park likes to fake part of its awesomeness. The input on the TV wasn’t working, so we couldn’t watch our DVD.

I’m starting to wonder how much else of this beautiful, hotel-like dorm is a mere Styrofoam facade. 

We didn’t know what to do, until we realized that our computers play DVDs. 

In the end the three of us were doing yoga, in the dark (for relaxation) in front of a tiny computer screen in a public workout area.

It was quite an intense yoga workout, listening to the P90X man say things like “stand on your tippy toes,” and “thar she blows!” through his heavy breathing. He was pretty ripped, however, so we figured maybe he knew what he was doing.

We ended with the creepy P9oX man leading us in a series of “ohmmmmm”s, which we did in three-part harmony.

Watercolor Pencils

I was introduced to watercolor pencils by a friend of mine, Becca. She set them in front of me and explained how they worked: I was supposed to color on a page then grab a paintbrush, dip it in water, and pull it across the pencil sketch.

It reminded me of those old watercolor books that seemed to come only in Disney Princess or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles themes that would be previously painted and all you needed to do is blend the cross hatched, water activated paint, which always bled into a brownish mess.

I carefully chose an unimportant envelope to practice on. The blue pencil looked inviting so I sharpened it and drew a thick, bold square on the corner, making sure all the edges were nice and dark. However, when I pulled the hairs of the damp paintbrush across my geometric masterpiece, the hard edges wouldn’t run. In the midst of my colorful blob were four solid, un-blurred lines. I decided to change my strategy: instead of solid lines, I would thatch out an indefinite shape. This worked out perfectly, as soon as I smeared the paintbrush over my new form, the pencil flowed onto the page, no more harsh lines left behind.

It is the night before I start my sophomore year in college and I can’t help but think about these miraculous, water activated pencils. My whole life has been far too vague, and these watercolor pencils reminded me of that because I drew my life with no edges so I can’t be closed into anything definite. Like the pencils: if you draw a shape with too noticeable of boundaries, the edges won’t smear; but if you leave the edges just clear enough, the finished piece will look as seamless as the rest of the work.

Life doesn’t have to be only dark lines with definite beginnings and ends because then it won’t match the rest of the masterpiece.