Sunday, November 21, 2010

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Rejected status

I think of a new facebook status every ten minutes. I wonder what it would look like if I collected the rejects. I am going to make it a goal to write down the ones I disregard.


"My lips taste like mint tea"

"I'm relating too much to Julie/Julia"

Nothing I write is profound and I know this. Some people write profound things and they know it's profound. If I think of a profound thing to write, it's a quote. It's a lyric. It's corny, if it's original. It's disingenuous. Some moments are profound, I prefer them to go by without a word.

"My toes are cold"

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Rexburg, ID. The outskirts of the desert. Typically this is obvious by the dry heat and sand particles that are blown around by the consistent assaulting wind.

Past summer days were spent baking in the sun with homework strewn out on a blanket in the park. We'd stay as naked as possible, t-shirts, shorts and skirts, flip-flops or slip on shoes that could be kicked off at a whim. My feet were permanently stained a calico of black, brown and green from running out of my apartment barefoot for any little reason. Shuddering against cold air-conditioning and being beaten by florescent lights for more than ten minutes was torture.

This summer, we're begging to be ravaged by the sun's rays. It seems to be taking an extra vacation when we need it the most. We're constantly berated by clouds and ice-cold rain. This is what they don't tell you about deserts. When it's dark, it is COLD. When it rains, it is COLD. No warm summer cloud bursts that you can stand out in barefoot letting the fat drops run down your face and over your skin. This rain is a shock each time it pelts down and touches flesh.

I miss playing in warm puddles that congregated in intersections. The hot pavement paired with the warm rain from the muggy atmosphere. Perfection. Summer.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Little known fact...

I love sharpies. I love how they write in a smooth deliberate line.
I love that they are permanent and the word that is written is there for a reason.

A few weeks ago I made a book that has turned into a new journal and I had a sharpie that I was using for the first few pages and it was b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.

I was shocked this week to discover that there are people who know me. Not in the sense that I'm misunderstood, but that there are people who care enough to pay that sort of attention to my daily ramblings.

In seminar we discussed what is attractive to ourselves. Generally, so people, things, whatever. Why are we drawn to what we're drawn to?

I came equipped because this is just the sort of topic that my roommate and I discuss when we can't sleep at 4am. I rose my hand and said, "My roommate describes my own attraction as this, though I think it's a little extreme: I'm attracted to rebellion. --" I'm instantly cut off with "YUPP!" and Sister Morgan along with a good fraction of the group verifies the validity of this.

Though, I still like to say I'm attracted to people or things that embrace originality.

Moral of the story: I bought five sharpies and am looking forward to a new chapter.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

C'mon laugh with me

Oh, San Francisco... one day my friend.

Saturday, March 20, 2010


I do not enjoy relying on others for:
rides to the store,
rides to IF to get supplies for school projects,
new music,
and hope.

I will not commit to:
leg hair,
nail polish color,
a boy,
only one crush,
and my perception.

Things that get old really fast:
wedding dresses in the front closet,
my attitude,
my wardrobe,
holier-than-thou criticism,
and soda cans.

I can't wait until:
getting my bike in riding-order,
knowing what will happen after graduation,
being comfortable in my skin,
not feeling sick,
and ...

I'm freaked out by:
potato bugs,
dark windows,
Miley Cyrus,
and the influence of Stephenie Meyer

Monday, February 8, 2010


So I'm an English major right? Not just an English Major, but an English LITERATURE Major.... meaning, I read, and analyze... read, and analyze... and in between that... I read, and analyze. (Sometimes, I try hard not to analyze, but after six years in college [SIX years?!] I can't help myself.)

(This dude is the overwhelmed little man that tries to keep the information I've been gleaning over the years in functioning order. Good luck little man.)

To keep my brain from overloading and suffering from the lack of creation that I sometimes feel as I read and remark on the creation of others I sew. I made it my minor actually. And since this semester I've taken up two advanced sewing classes, a floral arranging class, a guitar class, oh yeah and one Lit Theory class, my creative juices have been coursing through my brain. This past week I was blogstalking the relatives of a friend that I had never met before... creepy right? And I happened upon some AWE inspiring little ditties that I want to incorporate into my creative endeavors...

This is Katie Jo's blog... I think she's related to Deb? But she makes pillows and cool stuff that I kinda love.
And then I was looking for how to make flowers... and found.....
at Little Birdie Secrets' blog and they have a TON of stuff that is super cool... I don't think she's related to anyone
I also found this on Little Birdie, they had a link to the pattern for this purse fo' FREES and now me and my roommate Rachel will be endeavoring to make them.
Somehow through all of this I ended up at Anna Maria's blog.... OMIHECK... I want this when I grow up, minus the children....
These walls were hand panted, as well as the beds. AGH! I want it! And I love the hardwood.
Anna Maria is a textiles designer and has AMAZING stuff that I'm kinda going crazy over.
Anyway, I'm excited to create, and live my life. I'll have books in my house. But I think instead of critiquing creativity I'd be a much happier person contributing to the creative whole.


PS Sorry if this is sensory overload :D

Thursday, January 21, 2010


It’s hard to feel at home now. Growing up, phrases like “You can’t go home again” struck me as odd. As a teenager, despite any tiffs I got in with my parents, I knew that when things got tough I could go home to where I’m loved and accepted; Even if I’m not understood. On my most recent sojourn in Pennsylvania I stayed with my family that gathered for the first time in two years together in my parent’s home. I walked to my bedroom, and through the familiar pokey halls and drafty rooms thinking about an earlier experience. Our extended family had been gathered together in an Uncle’s home to celebrate someone’s birthday. I was a little kid, probably seven years old, and I wandered to Todd’s bedroom. Todd was my cousin who had recently left for college, though he was home for this particular event. His room was immaculate. The bed was made. There was Pitt paraphernalia carefully organized on shelves, and the walls. The only idea that anyone had been in the room was a duffle bag at the foot of the bed. Clothes half spilled out, looking like a crouched cat that is tentative to enter a new territory for the first time. This image of the college student’s room always stayed with me. When I was back in PA for Christmas I sat on the edge of the bed that was carefully made, and stared at the BYU-Idaho pennant hanging on the wall, and the carry-on suitcase near the door. I knew that although I grew up here, I didn’t belong anymore, and all I wanted was to go back to where I did feel at home. The last time I felt truly at home, I was at a party. My roommate is into this social scene, and she loves to throw parties at our apartment and have it be talked about and meet new people. I’m definitely not in the same boat. During the beginning of this particular event I paced back and forth between the back rooms and the front porch in order to disguise my social unease. This was my apartment and I did not feel like it was home. Eventually Ivor showed up, followed by Brittany and Doug. None of these people were into this scene and we all clustered together on the couch, forming a protective bond that kept all unwanted new acquaintances away. Being on that couch, with those people who I didn’t need to impress and who weren’t trying to impress me or anyone around me, I recognized this feeling of comfort that I had while growing up in my parent’s home. Though I still am able to enjoy this feeling of home while at school I feel that it comes less and less; and I wonder where the next place that I find it will be.