little nemo

i've been spending my nights reading Winsor McCay's Little Nemo's Adventures in Slumberland. Debuting in 1905 for New York Herald, the illustrations are beautiful art nouveau. Each strip involves Nemo being lead to Slumberland in some extravagant way, and by the final frame he wakes up.

McCay was ahead of his time with his illustrations. When the comic first ran, it didn't quite catch on because it wasn't particularily funny. It's understandable; many of the strips are dark and some aren't dreams but more night-mares, so i can see why a boy Nemo's age wouldnt care for it. Reading it now, it's easy to forget how novel McCay's work was; swallowing moons, glass caverns, spaghetti-legged beds--it's really remarkable.

I'm reading through them as they were published, and i havent even made a dent, but i love it so far. in particular these:

Nemo is taken to a cave of glass, where he meets the Queen Crystallette. The guards warn Nemo not to hold her hand because she is so fragile, but she is so beautiful that he cannot resist. He kisses her and she shatters, causing the entire cave to break with her.

Just breaking some art nouveau shrooms. (okay, McCay... shrooms... freaking out... its all a little trippy)

Finally, this one is wonderful. Cupid lets Nemo take his pick of any of the fine Valentines to be his:


i am in love with these. especially the art style, so beautiful. i'll post some more that i find.


** i know they get cut off, so click on the pictures to see them in full!

en français, s'il vous plaît.

i've had this problem for some time now, ever since french class back in high school. in my head, i constantly waiver between french and english, even though i'm no where near fluent. i'll think a sentence in french, and if i don't know the particular word i'll substitute the english.



montmartre, paris. juin 2007



gradually the problem has gotten worse, where i speak without thinking this hodgepodge of franglish, and now throw in a japanese word as well. i just can't keep it straight.


quand je fais du vélo, je pense seul en français when i'm on my bicycle, i only think in french. like a stream of conciousness narratif. and i smell d'amatos' bakery down the street and i get butterflies in my stomach, thinking back to two summers ago.


too bad no one understands my ridiculous outbursts. no one knows what i mean when i casually reply rien de spécial or c'est là-bas. it's annoying, i'm well aware, but at the same time, involuntary.

i really don't know how to stop it. i have no one to speak with, save this quiet man who works downstairs in the office at work, mais j'ai peur à parler avec lui. when i try to speak, i get all nervous and can only ask him how his day has been, and to have a good night, though my head is swarming with conversation.

les baux-de-provence, 2007

i've decided that my only option is to go back. i've decided that after my last year of college, i'm going to.

puis, je peux faire du vélo sur la côte d'Arcachon et penser en français tout que je veux.

in archachon, 2007. that's me with the long black hair and blue top, sitting next to my french teacher's gorgeous blonde nephew. that's another story for another day.



p.s., i took the above two pictures. this one was taken by kristin ruhnke.

tumblr.

made the move. i'm still keeping this, to make long-winded, profound realizations on, but my short thoughts are re-directed to tumblr.

if you really can't get enough, you can listen to my tweets, too.
maybe that's getting too personal.

may street

i am ashamed that summer has commenced and i haven't returned to the blogosphere for an update. not like i am ridiculously busy, moreover, i am lazy, and the discovery of this wonderful little thing known as "stumbleupon" has changed my life. it digs up treasures from the crevices of the world wide web and entrances you for hours. back to real life:

so i have since moved to the quiet little May Street for the summer. It's great; I share a humble flat with a few friends & fellow art students from Dallas. Our first and foremost summer plans involve a list of themed parties that we intend to demolish in the next few months. We threw the cocktail party and it was a success or a mistake, depending on the quantity of cocktails you had divided by the volume of hors d'oeurves consumed. right now, our "South of the Border" fiesta is in the works, soon to be followed by a Communist Party, where i will pull out my Red Army cossack hat, Comrade.

Anyhow, the summer is (hopefully) going to be the best yet, at least better than if i was in dallas. Not to say that i miss all my dallasites, but i would feel like i was traveling back in time, only all my sentiments would be false and only made of memories. i have been getting friend-sick, getting stomach aches when i think of all the fun i had last summer, and how, no matter how much it makes me ache, i'll never be in that position again. it saddens me to think that i didn't stop and appreciate it at the time, that i didnt realize that i would never have these experiences again, or at least not the same ones. now i'm trying desperately to make this summer exponentially better, to forget those times. basically, fooling myself. but i keep getting whiffs of summer air that takes me back to cool dallas nights with my dear friends. it's a part of my life that i need to learn to get over. now i'm listening to "Lassu" by A Hawk and a Hacksaw and its making my heart ache with its whiny gypsy violin. so this post must draw to a close.

in closing. i've almost finished Everything is Illuminated, and I'm getting to that sad part where you dont want to finish the book and be done with it because you've grown to love it so much. someone give me a good book recommendation?

p.s. later about the new bicycle. promise.

so sorry

i regret that i neglect this dear ol' blog that no one reads. come this summer (as i keep saying) i promise to fill you with tales of chicago bizarro, so get ready. at the moment i have summoned all of my creative energy for my final projects and am completely idea-d out. i have fragments, but no energy to make they remotely coherent. 

I am filling boxes to New Order and wondering where the neverending crap is coming from. is there some mystic well in the corner of my closet that just spews hairties, receipts, and pennies? i am in awe. 

The recent passing of my beloved iPod has left me trying to uncover thousands of long-lost tracks that i'm finding i probably only listen to 60% of (keep the Mae, ditch the Story of the Year). Trying to decide who makes the cut has made me nostalgic (remember Thursday? keepers!). The first My Chemical Romance album takes me back to seventh grade rebellion, and the Boys Like Girls (embarrassing!) reminds me of summers on apartment rooftops. They get to stay for sentimental reasons. I wonder what songs will remind me of this approaching summer in a few years? Animal Collective's "My Girls", anyone?

Hopefully this time next week i will be kicking my barefeet off of the back porch of my new apartment. housewarming anyone?

childcraft

so i came back from dallas praying that it would finally be out of the forties.

it's not.

there's snow on the curb.

so depressing.

in other news, my first film is up on vimeo. give it a looksie. leave a comment. i was really happy with how it turned out. the next one is going to be with my partner, Geoff-- it's a character study on a fat Jewish carpet salesman named Mordecai. I'm pumped.

in other, other news. someone please buy me this:

actually just the 15th book: Guide to Childcraft. I remember that was the only one i liked to read because it had all the gruesome pictures of the babies with cleft lip and rickets, and what sores meant what diseases and how to treat someone for electrical shock.  it worked out well, because while the other kids fought over the other books, i dove for the parent's guide. i dont think i ever even cracked the other ones. 

i'm going to see if i can just buy that one on ebay or something. 20th birthday hayyyyy?

subway songs

something about subway musicians just fascinates me, and i mean the real musicians-- not the homeless guy with the boombox who sits in the center of the Jackson underground tunnel, which stinks like urine (wonder why). 

in the Lake red line station, where i get off for work, there is an old chinese (?) woman (?) who plays this bizarre cello-eqsue instrument, it's more like a broomstick with one string on it that sings this sickly, off-key song (I looked it up and found that its a erhu). She plays the same song over and over, i only wish that i could figure out what it is. 

there's also a native american-looking woman in sunglasses who plays the guitar, violin, castanets, tap-dances, and whistles all at the same time, with a tin measuring cup tied to the head of her guitar begging for spare change. 

a threesome of old crooners harmonize to stevie wonder, and a hendrix lookalike jams on an acoustic guitar. a wanderer sings amazing grace a cappella. a drugged out man playing african drums dedicated all his songs to the Jonas Brothers, who, according to him, died in a tragic plane crash in south america. 

Once i saw a young guy playing some pop punk acoustic serenades in the Washington Blue Line station. as soon as he started playing, a crazy at the other end of the stop started howling unintelligibly. the boy stopped, and the howler would too. start again, and the howling started up. it was a competition, and i think the homeless scraggler won because the boy eventually gave up in frustration, whining to himself as pop-punks do. 

yesterday i saw the icing on the subway musician cake. a man holding a plush tiger, both in matching red sweaters, gold chains and sunglasses. his boombox was playing a karaoke song. The plush tiger was freestyle rapping to "Eye of the Tiger".  he was all "yo, imma tiger, gonna eatchu, hear me roar" it was probably the best thing i've ever seen occur in a subway. 

so don't even bother asking, corner homeless. my spare change is going to help keep music alive. 

*edit: found this youtube video of the tiger guy, but it's from two years ago when the tiger was just a baby. it's pretty big now. poor quality, but at least it's proof!

the thaw

i think it's finally the beginning of the end. 

the end of the long, seeming perpetual winter. 

It's a gorgeous day out, an unbelievable 60 degrees, and my windows are open and the venetian blinds are being sucked into them from the gusts of Chicago wind that bring words of change. 

So I'm working on a screenplay right now. About some troubled son coming home for a funeral and finding himself, blah blah blah. But i'm loving it, because i feel so productive. I'm sitting here type type typing away, feeling oh so legit with my screenwriting software that makes any stream of consciousness look professional. 

i feel like for the past few weeks i've been balancing on the edge of this cliff, or maybe a coffee table, wobbling back and forth but overcome with this feeling that something big is on the other side. the calm before the storm? possibly. I can't explain it. But i have been doing a lot of lucid dreaming, finding an hour before work to crash face down on the couch, hoping to conjure some bizarre choose-your-own-adventure. It's all been giving me these weird feelings, not weird bad but weird unknown. 

I think i need to blog more, let these things out. I have all these occurrences and stories i've been meaning to relay. 

i'll leave you one now, about his lucid dream i had a few days ago. Saturday, to be exact. It echos this feeling i've been having recently:

whatever I'm doing at the moment has to stop. All of a sudden i am overcome with an urgency to go outside. It's an apocalyptic panic, and i grab _______'s hand and pull her with me, searching for the nearest door. As soon as i get outside, the air hits me like concrete. It's difficult to breathe, the air is so thick it's like inhaling water. I look down at my hand, pawing through the atmosphere, watching the air part against my fingertips and the spaces between my fingers, like when you slowly press your hand on the surface of a swimming pool. I am still clenching her hand, making sure we don't get separated. The sky is so dark, like when it storms in the middle of the day and you lose your concept of time because its suddenly night at noon. We are on the beach, the sand is damp and caked, the water is dark and grey and troubling. We get to the surf, and i spy a whale! a giant, dark whale and i can see his skin perfectly, all the bumps and tightness, and so i let go of her hand and turn around to call her attention. But the second i turn to face her, the water starts pulling me in and it's the strongest undertow that i could ever imagine, and i cannot even begin to fight it. It pulls me away, leaving her on the shore.

I wake up, sprawled on my back on the couch with one leg up on the back of the couch and my arm over my head and the other dangling off the edge, and i think that my roommates must think i'm absolutely insane. 

any dream interpreters out there?

on a lighter note, this is a bit of wisdom i got from an vibrant old woman with a broken arm:

"when a bird falls and injures itself, it's best not to help it. The bird will use all of its remaining energy to heal itself slowly."

she tells me she refuses to go to physical therapy, but instead is fasting and has a newfound energy and sense of focus. 

and then she tapped my nose with a smile and was off. 

memoir girl

or so we have dubbed her, comes in with her makeup done perfectly. her lipstick is dark and painted, her whole face really is like a oil painting. It's not greasy or anything, more like unrealistically perfect. She's snow-white fair, and her rich brunette waves frame her face exquisitely. when she talks, she almost whispers seductively, pulling a conscious smile out of the corner of her lips. i'm not trying to glorify her; that's really just how she looks. She's young, maybe late twenties, and sometimes wears this fancy fur hat when it's really cold to go with her ivory turtleneck. if you can gather anything from this description, hopefully it's this: she kind of thinks she's a bit of a big deal. 

she orders the same thing every time: a large cappuccino with an extra shot, extra, extra sweet with sugar-free vanilla, as well as a large hot water and a large ice water. she smiles coyly at me whenever i predict her order (because it's such a surprise) or know that she likes her hot water without a sleeve and says "thank you, sweetie." 

this is where it gets weird.

she grabs a table against the wall and lays out page after page and an open book and goes to town writing what we think are her memoirs. Though at such a ripe young age, i can't imagine how long that book is going to be. apparently one time, one of my coworker's failed to "keep an eye on her stuff" after she requested a watchful eye while she took a pit-stop, and she flipped out that something could have happened to her irreplaceable writings. 

after she calls it a night, we always gather 'round the table she was at in horror. she leaves the biggest mess. and not only is it a mess, but it's a creepy mess. she leaves cups under the table half-way filled with a mysterious liquid that definitely doesn't resemble a sugar-free vanilla cappuccino. it always seems like she accumulates more cups than she requested, all filled with dark cloudy water or flakes of oatmeal. in addition to cups and ripped up sugar packets, she has, on a few occasions, left rejects from her sacred manuscript. scrawled illegibly on crumpled up notebook paper in brown or green marker (i picture her doing the clichéd crumple-up and toss-over-the-shoulder-in-rejection), they are borderline gibberish. incoherent. 

"Reece is involved ... why so nervous and guilty - soon after or about 6 minutes after VC left -- Reece wrote story for school & got into trouble or called in to see school therapist - ... only reason .... wanted to pressure ...." 

and more about Reece, who apparently is involved in some shenanigans. the other page i found is even more hard to read and therefore ten times more confusing, but "Reece" and "infection" pop up here and there. ive seen her with a few medical books, and someone said she was in fact a medical student. 

either way, she looks pretty harmless. but she's just another one of our nuts. 

la plage

i went to north avenue beach the other evening. it was relatively warm out, meaning low 50s, but coming from over a month of bitter cold winds slapping your face left and right, the cool breeze was more than welcomed. even at work today, everyone seemed be to ordering iced versions of their favorites, and believe it or not-- we did spy someone in shorts. i think the brutal cold sends everyone so far into hibernation that the first hint of a new season calls for celebration. 

so this heat wave prompted johnathan and i to pack up a comforter and head to clark/division on the red line and venture east to the water. 

by the time we got to the shore, the sun had completely set, but it was still pleasant out. despite being right beside lake shore drive, it was strangely quiet on the beach. there was little left of the ice that had previously paved over the sand. i frequently would look out my window to see the ice floes on the lake, just the sight of it chilling me to the bone before i even set foot outside. the sand was damp, the water was dark, deep blue. the moon was high above the water, looking back at its reflection cutting into the navy water.  you could see the ferris wheel from navy pier, completely illuminated.  there were only a few other people who had decided to venture out to the beach like us. it was wonderful. it was as if this wave had come over me and started in my toes and scrambled up my body, twisted around in my stomach, and stretched out my fingertips and out the tips of my hair.  

i return two days later with my other friend and her camera, my own journal in hand hoping to channel the energy from the glistening water into some creativity for my screenwriting class. i lied on my stomach on the blanket, dreading the creeping shadow cast from the quickly-setting sun behind the skyline. before long, i had curled up in the sandy blanket like a big cocoon and fallen asleep. sleeping on the beach is one of those incredible simple things in life, when you forget that there's probably sand maneuvering its way into all your nooks and crannies, and you just pass out on nature's own tempur-pedic. complete & utter bliss. the drool mark on my journal proves it.

being on the beach did spark a few thoughts of mine, some of which stemmed from an old friend in high school and a conversation in my junior year english class. 

has anyone read Sophie's World? 

That will be another post for another day.

ten below

i knew it was coming,

i had been told countless horror stories of its impending arrival. 

i just didn't really know the true extent of its wrath.

as in, january in chicago.

when it's too cold to snow, that's when it's bad. if i step out my front door into flurry of big fluffy snowflakes, i seem to forget that it's freezing out. i adopt the excitement of a six year old and have to command every muscle in my body to contain my urge to make a snow angel in the empty parking lot next to my building. 

this is going to be a trying time on my appendages. my cheeks and tip of my nose and eyelids will hate me, my fingers will curse my gloves for not working overtime. when i inhale its like my lungs will freeze solid from the air inside them. 

au revoir simone - fallen snow

wait, it gets better!

au revoir simone - fallen snow (teenagers remix)

 

Janet

it's been a long time since i've last posted, i realize. i keep making all these pathetic excuses to myself, saying that i am too busy. While i am busy, i also spend the remainder of my time surfing craigslist or refreshing my facebook on this same computer that i could just as easily be blogging on. But who's interested in what i have to say? i'd much rather comb the "missed connections" late at night. 

And then i decided that i have plenty of odd stories to tell, and while i love scrawling them into my little notebook tucked in my purse, i figured i could publicize a few.

today i'm going to tell you about Janet. or Janice, but i'm pretty sure her name is Janet. She comes in almost every day to the tea cafe where i work, wheeling a small suitcase behind her. She is a small woman, possibly shorter than myself. I cannot even begin to guess her age, but her leathered face makes me lean towards the 40s, but probably not much older. Every day she dresses in a different color scheme. Let's say today is red; her red fuzzy striped socks poke out from under threadbare red corduroys, her red turtleneck complements her red vest, with her big red coat on over them. A red bucket hat and red earrings complete the ensemble. 

She walks up to the register and orders her drink; usually a small vanilla chai with skim and whip cream, but she likes to mix it up and surprise us with a blended lemonade or another concoction. Always whip cream and skim. And she pays with her club card, which as a constant $20 on it. When she orders, she cocks her head slightly, and strokes the ends of her black hair, speaking in a sophisticated tone. Her face is worn and red, i think she has rosacea, and she opens her compact and assesses herself frequently. 

She sits down with her caravan, and begins fiddling with various things. One day, she will be laying out fragments of tin foil on the table. Another day, she pays her bills. She obviously loves cats, as we have gathered from bookmarks and magazine clippings that she has left behind for us. We collect her scraps and post them in the back room, our little shrine to her and her eccentricities. Frequently she will hold up a pen (usually a kitty-themed one, at that), erect at eye-level, like she is an antenna for some alien radio. Aliens, from what i hear, thats what the aluminum foil is about. She talks aloud to herself or an unseen being, sometimes almost shouting and cursing. My coworker said that one she saw her poking herself repeatedly in the eye socket. She writes little poems and omens on notecards and post-its, and when we find them we huddle around it and repeat her eerie words. I wish i could remember the last one we found, some verse about coming to earth and finding hatred. It was sad, and sad to think that that's how Janet feels. That there's hatred. 

One of my coworkers is keeping a mental file on her, like a little side-project. I like Janet, she is a little kooky, but for the most part, harmless. From what i hear, she has toned down her behavior. I'm always nice to Janet, i always make sure she wants whipped cream. I wonder about her, where does she go before she comes in? after she leaves? i hear she goes to our other cafes as well, like a little specter that appears right when you think you lost her. 

edit: 1/7/09

Walking down Madison towards the blue line, i pass by another location of our tea cafe. and sitting against the window, prodding at a sweater with a pair of scissors, is Janet.

She's like a little ghost. 

edit: 1/8/09

these are the two index card messages we have received from Janet:

the first date (1/27/67) marks the flash fire that killed three astronauts on the Apollo-1 mission. 

the next date (1/27-28/86) is the Challenger explosion.

the last date (2/1/03) is the Columbia explosion.

three incidents of astronaut deaths. 

i'm trying to decide what kind of statement she is trying to make. 

are we wrong to infringe on alien territory? are these horrific accidents warnings?

the other one is the poem, actually it could even be a limerick.  

"An artist reborn came in fear.

'Don't write anymore' he did hear.

On Earth he didn't know

He had any foe

'Twas shocking when Hate did appear."

you figure it out. 

settling in the south side

as in south side of the loop.

as in State & 8th St.

as in, my home.

i realized i haven't posted in quite sometime considering it's the fifth or so week of school and my previous post was from the middle of summer. don't get me wrong, i have free time, but i tend to spend it watching movies now. all the time. i think it's slightly obligatory, being a film major. i need to keep up with this thing, because i have already seen so many ridiculous things being here, i just have to write them down. writing. i've been doing so much of that lately. i'm in this development & preproduction class, where all i do is write. but it's good writing, its just ideas that have been welling up from my imagination, i just never put them down in ink. it made me realize how many ideas i've had stocked up that i can actually put to use now. but more on that some other time. 

things have been great. for the overwhelming most part. it's weird looking out my window writing this and seeing the thick clouds over lake michigan surrounding the aquarium. it's a nice view, but the constantly-running El train out my window isn't nice at all. i'm getting used to it, but when you're trying to fall asleep at 2 am it sounds like the loudest noise ever, and you could swear that every time it goes by it gets louder. 

i don't have too many stories yet, unless you count the drunk woman who did a face-plant at the corner of damen and milwaukee, and when a stranger rushed to help her up, she started sucking his face. 

ahh chicago! like my friend joe said, "that would only happen in chicago. in new york no one is nice enough to help them up, and in chicago, people are weird enough to do something like that."

i'll keep posting stories from the front lines. when i'm not pouring through childhood memories for a 5-minute film proposal or making hibiscus steamers at Argo Tea. ('nother post for another time. promise.)

speaking of that 5-minute film, that's what i'm working on right now. 

because three little kids sliding down a woody hill in a plastic kiddie pool is charming, but not quite a story line. 

Orientateeristrationing at 1104 S. Wabash

yeah, i was doing something like that for eight hours in downtown Chicago on wednesday.

eight hours with a bunch of self-proclaimed filmmakers. I mean, technically we are film students, but i'm almost starting to cringe at that title, even though a few months ago i couldnt wait to earn it.

it started when i met this guy randomly at my mom's-friend's art show gallery exhibit whatever: when upon hearing that i was "studying film!" (as my proud mother boasted), he immediately made a comeback with "oh everyone's a film student now! everyone goes to LA, no one makes it, pompous bs about myself..."

yeah, he was a ___bag. 

so anyways, i bent over and peeled my self-esteem off the ground and brushed it off. 

"so, directing? everyone's trying to direct these days..."

"No. Cinematography, actually."

"Oh. You'll get work."

and that was about it. and i decided that no arrogant west coaster is going to try and put me in my place. 

back to orientation:

after getting my campus card photo taken at 8 am (it's horrid- you can see my roots! :<>

so here's what it's looking like thus far:

history of cinema

aesthetics of cinema

development & preproduction

quantitative something (math)

biology of the human immune system

ROCKIN.

so then i got to sit with a bunch of people that i already formed opinions about and pretend like i'll remember their names and chat about "what our favorite films are"!

to me, there is a difference between 'films' and 'movies'. 

doctor zhivago is a film.

superbad is a movie.

see what i mean?

still, the question turned up 'lord of the rings', 'star wars', and the favorite 'garden state'

(i said 'the science of sleep', although 'rocket science' is a close second)

and another word of advice, do NOT say you love foreign films and either a) not name any or possibly worse b) cite 'Amelie' (unless you are referencing French films or Audrey Tautou)

you know, i bet the serious fashion majors get even more pissed. It's not a shopping major, Barbie. 

they say only 60% makes it past the first semester. 

we'll see. 

*the use of the word "like" in the sentence is not a teen frivolity- i'm approximating distance, okay?

since i always post a tune:

only because theyre called

lectric - film school

five weeks to go, and the nerves are kicking in. or are they butterflies?

My medicine-woman doctor cured my off my persistent drowsiness and traded it for a minor case of insomnia. Okay, insomnia such an overused word. Maybe i just need to cut back on the naps & coffee. 

Considering i have two calendars in my room and one on this computer, i find it hard to escape the fact that there are roughly FIVE (5) weeks left before i pack my bags and head up north. I started the summer with this I AM SO READY SHIP ME OFF RIGHT NOW kind of attitude; you know, that whole invincible teenager thing. Or maybe the fact that most of my friends were staying in Texas or majoring in business or something boring fed my TAKE CHICAGO BY STORM vigor. 

now i'm on song 32 of 6572 on my iPod, wondering if i should delete my previous post to avoid any i told you so's. 

but the unexpected happened; i realized what i'm going to be missing, and it actually made me cry. 

but getting a glitter & sequin-filled envelope with a letter written on pink construction paper with scalloped edges reminded me that things just might be okay. It was from a dear friend of mine who had graduated high school last year. It made me realize something else; i still keep in touch with her, so of course i will keep in touch with my friends. It's just another state, letters and phone calls and facebook posts don't care if you're in Maine or California. These next four years are just going to weed out the people who don't matter as much as i thought, and make my relationships better with those who do. 

it's still scary.

honestly, this summer has been more than ideal for me. almost unrealistic, yet it's happening. I realized it when a friend said to me at a coffee shop the other night, something was different about me. And it is; i'm happier than i can ever recall--i'm done with people who bring me down and found people who I really feel comfortable with. 

i just hope these next 5 weeks creep by. at a glacial pace. please. 

BY THE WAY:

i went to tilly & the wall on wednesday. it rocked. i actually got a sideache from dancing so hard.

&I FEEL SO ALIVE &I FEEL SO ALIVE &I FEEL SO ALIVE &I FEEL

mp3: beat control- Tilly & the Wall

back into the ring

so, a good deal of time has passed since the last time i blogged. just with graduation and all, i had been so busy that i hadn't any time to pull up a chair to my computer for anything more than updating my facebook status. ("Lauren is A *gRaDuAtE!!1!11!**LOL)

so i decided it's time for a change.

hearing that my mother and her friend have jumped on the blog bandwagon, i felt like i needed to resurrect mine. and now that i have my glorious macbook pro, that shouldn't be such a task.

other than being freed from the stigma of a private-school high school student, not much has happened. 

but you know, graduation is a pretty big deal. it means that i've completed a bracket on the timeline of my life; i've made a change. With these first few weeks of summer i've been able to make a few revelations:

1) high school isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

yes, i know that sounds horribly pessimistic, but it's really true. I had come back from the lengthy graduation ceremony and kicked off my shoes and took a deep inhale and thought, when you say you're going into high school, adults always tell you "oh, high school is the best four years of your life!" and so maybe i was set up with some insane expectations. But nonetheless, i found myself wondering what was supposed to have happened to me to make those years so monumental. Save being relatively responsibility-free, I wasn't sure i knew what all those adults were reminiscing about. I never had that awesome boyfriend or went to that awesome party or took a kajillion pictures of myself with the same five friends. I don't remember the night the football team came back and won it all after being down at the half (possibly because our football team wasn't so hot) or that one time _____ surprised me with a dozen roses asking me to prom. Nope. Missed that one. But then someone told me, "The people who say high school was the best years of their life only say that because they're losers now." Their prom queen crown makes their real life look bland. I really did't care that i was voted "Truly Trendy." It didn't change my life. So maybe i'll be the one who says, "College was the best four years of my life!" instead. which brings me to lightning bolt number

2) college is going to rock. 

i'm going to be in the place i love doing what i love. i have no complaints. I'm not going to wake up one morning four years later wondering why i went to WACO, TEXAS for college experience and didn't have the guts to really get out into the world and make something of myself (no hate comments, please).  I just feel like i am really going to have, for the first time, the chance to really get out there and do what i really want to do with my life. I dont know how everything's going to work out and all, but it's still exciting just to think about it. I'm moving to Chicago to start a whole new life for myself. No more worrying about who i'm going to sit with at lunch. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm in complete control of who i surround myself with. I don't have to feel like a complete loser because i opted out of going/didn't get invited to ______'s swinging kegger. 

The only thing i have to worry about soon is if starbucks is going to make me completely broke and when my well-dressed, bearded, cultured potential boyfriend is going to give me a call.  

or daniel vosovic, when he turns straight.

ON TO CHI-TOWN!

mp3: Homecoming - Kanye West feat. Chris Martin

this is the dream of lauren and dad.

last night was quite possibly the most incredible performance i have ever seen in my life.
(yes my dad came along- and was equally if not more impressed than i was)


i was standing in the very front, a few feet from owen himself.


i have to say, he is really down to earth! i chatted with him for a bit, and snagged a picture:












Well i look like a loser, but he certainly doesn't.










oh owen pallett! why must you have a boyfriend!

He played mostly songs from "He Poos Clouds"



but threw in classics like "CN Tower Belongs to the Dead" (Which was incredible)








He had a projector up, showing little slide shows that went with the song. it was quite cute.

<-- this one is from CN tower.



owen singing into his violin-->

made me want to go out and buy a loop.


After his set, he came out for a (much demanded) encore, and played "This is the Dream of Win and Regine" Super sorry, but i couldnt rotate the video from my camera!

and then finished with my favorite cover of his, Bloc Party's "This Modern Love"
this one's from my phone so its better.

so all you people who didn't feel like buying a $10 ticket and driving out to Hailey's, you missed out.
it was mind-blowing.

this isnt from last night, but it's close:

this modern love (bloc party cover)

Photography: '06-'07

these are selections from my portfolio last semester, the subject of these photographs being inspired by Diane Arbus' style of photography. the two images matted on black were entries in an art competition last year, but unfortunately neither photographs were selected to move on.

All of these photographs are self-processed T-Max film. (i processed both the film and the images).

please click the image captions to see them up close!! the quality of these are poor :[

NYC Firemen

Dog Lady of Ridgefield Park, NJ

shades

Shades2

Steel Drum Player

Bishop Allen- Empire City
New Buffalo- City and Sea (Lady Nameless)
Headlights- Pity City
The Answering Machine- Silent Hotels
Umbrellas- The City Lights

having a camera doesn't make you a photographer.

we live in the digital camera age:
everyone has a camera, and pictures are posted left and right on sites everywhere.

but just because you have a camera doesn't make you a photographer.

let me hammer down on one aspect in particular: "digital photography" and more specifically, "concert photography"

to me, taking pictures at a concert was just that. not an art, just a hobby, or a way of remembering a night out. but apparently, that's where i'm wrong.

story time:

sure i'm no professional photographer, but it's something i enjoy, and something i look at as a form of art.
i take mostly black and white (not c-41, mind you), and most of the time self-process both my film and prints, although i hate processing film. it takes a long time and the chemicals are smelly, and it's really easy to screw up your whole roll, which is one of the saddest things ever. by the way, i use a manual canon AE-1, if that means anything.

and i don't just take pictures of anything. i am quite picky. when i'm not snapping portraits of homeless people, i compose photographs anally, making sure my model is dressed how i see fit and the background and lighting is perfect. i am a perfectionist. and consequently a pain in the butt.

it all becomes worth it when i'm soaking my photo paper in the developer and seeing my image slowly creep onto the paper. that's what i live for. thats where i feel like i've truly created something.


now, i know i'm rambling a bit, but i have a point, i promise:

how can i classify my work (an that of other true photographers) as art
if kids snapping pictures at concerts on their digitals consider theirs art as well?

hmm. not so sure.
but i am sure that other photographers will second me on that.

now i dont mean that digital photography cannot be art. sure it can! people spend hours photoshopping images and adding effects to make something that film cannot even comprehend! i respect that.
even more so, it's the subject matter of the photographs, the composition, the angles, the lighting: digital certainly can be considered art. i have nothing against that.

its just when nothing of yourself is put into the photograph, no life, no personality, no meaning.
that's what i dont get.


LAME.



the bird and the bee- i hate camera
the faint-some incriminating photographs
braid-killing a camera
spoon-i turn my camera on

ATTACK OF THE MUMS

So, it's thursday.
what does that mean?
that tomorrow is friday.
what does that mean?
MUMS.



Being a traditional texan high school, we don't do small. we do big. and that applies to our homecoming mums as well.

sometimes, i doubt there's even a flower in there, behind all that



crap.




they're completely gaudy, and (like everything else in the world) they become some sort of a twisted, tack-fest competition.
who has the biggest mum (extra points for THREE silk mums stapled to a huge cardboard heart) followed by who has the most miscellaneous garbage hanging off of it (streamers, ribbons, plastic football helmets, mini stuffed animals)

and if the mums aren't disgusting enough, you have the garters, mini (if you can say that) versions of hodge-podge. do big football players really feel tough wearing them? just wondering.


so on friday everyone dresses up all nice and gets to wear their mums all day at school.

walking down the hall you see all these girls with their left breast sagging to their stomach because they have their 20 lb mum pinned to it, and the streamers are dragging on the floor so you step on one with your big fat high heels, thus pulling down the mum that is connected to your shirt. either you take the spill or partially flash the school. and then the mini teddy bear holding the football falls off and your day is ruined.

so i thought, why put myself though all these tribulations when i don't even like silk flowers and streamers in the first place?

i want a real mum.
with nothing on it.
no cowbells, no plastic footballs, no streamers that say "HOMECOMING". and definately no teddy bears.

unfortunately, the sad state of the world and homecoming festivities has rid florists throughout the metroplex of their real mums.

"no one asks for them anymore, so we stopped carrying them"

sad, so so sad.

so we called the one place that still uses mums:
a funeral home.

and sure enough, we got our mum!

kind of creepy, thinking that mine was probably plucked from some arrangement for the deceased.

but hey, if those girls can get all the plastic they want, i sure want what i want too.

so fellow highschool girls! abandon the plastic! forget the faux! go REAL! and bring the trend back!



well, i tried.