Locked-In

 Our tale is one of woe and murder at an overnight lock-in in the painfully generic Goodview High School (absolutely in no way inspired by a certain Fairview's name). This is a hallway from the school, speaking of omen and lonliness.

Mr. Stanley is the usually good-natured drama teacher. But one fateful night, he mixes up his pills by accident, and the clashing drugs drive him to hallucination, and eventually... murder. 

 This lovely pool is a part of the school's facilities, and at one point during the lock-in a girl named Stacey comes in for a late swim. Ultimately this is her demise, as she is stabbed and left to drown in the waters swirling murkily with scarlet blood.

Adam is the nicest guy in school, the one everyone knows and everyone likes. He's perpetually kind and driven--and eventually he finds himself thrust into the position of a hero. Throughout the night he endures much--being tossed out a second-story window is nearly his end. Maddie and he end up being the sole survivors of the massacre.

Tim is the sort of odd kid no one is really sure about. He's a bit emo, a bit withdrawn, loves contraband, and is admittedly a bit creepy. He is killed unceremoniously in a bathroom by a raving Mr. Stanley.

Maddie is the heroine of the story--a sincere, practical girl who's new to the school and the area. She sticks close to Adam, simply because she doesn't really know anyone else, and because he's nice. She and he end up being the only ones to survive the Goodview Massacre.

Kevin is the nerd. No one likes him very much--he's obnoxious, he's oblivious, and he tries too hard. The type of kid who's always in your face. He finds Tim, brutally wounded in the bathroom, and when he runs panicked to the others, blood all over him, they think he's the crazy one and tie him up. Later, he's found dead.

Rich fulfills the dumb jock archetype requirement for every high school story. He's arrogant, athletic, and not the brightest. He's Stacey's on-again-off-again boyfriend, but their relationship doesn't delve much deeper than physical. Death by a long fall.

Stacey is Rich's on-again-off-again girlfriend. She's not very nice, hides below caked-on makeup, and takes a while to pick up on things. Death by stabbing/drowning.

This film is definitely a horror/slasher film. There will be blood.

Indiana Freaking Jones

It was pretty hard for me to pick a favorite movie. It was basically between classic musicals (Singin' in the Rain, The Sound of Music), serious and deeply touching films (The Green Mile, The Shawshank Redemption), adorable animated pieces (Every classic Disney movie/ Disney Pixar movie ever), and breathtaking/sad masterpieces (Avatar, Titanic, The Notebook). 

But in the end, there's really no one to compete with Indiana Jones.

Okay, seriously. Look at that beautiful, beautiful poster, and try to name one thing more awesome/adventurous/epic/genius/sexy. That's right. You can't. Because Harrison Ford is a stud, and because Indy is the human embodiment of all things awesome.

Life is Just a Fight of Wrong and Right and Right and Wrong

 Recently, a song that has had a huge impact on my life is "Battle: Pt II" by Chris August. It's catchy and fun to sing and dance to, but there is a very serious undertone of wisdom and intuition that raises goosebumps. The song is essentially about how life is a struggle, but it's worth the fight. His lyrics are genius, his voice is lovely, and I could replay the song over and over again and never tire of it. I'm not sure whether it's my favorite song of all time, but it's definitely the song I think about most often.

It inspires me on another level, plain and simple.

Memoir Photo 7 - Naive Aspirations?

I've written a lot about my past. But memoirs are also about who we are today, and what we will become in the future, and that's a huge part of my life right now. I've even titled my whole blog after my sort of tentative but impatient mindset: Naive and Ambitious.

The picture above is of Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. And if that isn't the most beautiful place I can imagine on Earth, I'd like to see what is. My childhood dreams of novelism and nature-studying have evolved into a want to be a travel journalist, seeing the world, writing about it, sharing glimmers of diamonds in the rough with the masses. This life was given to us for us to do something with it, and with mine, I want to experience the world and all its beauties and tragedies and secrets as much as I can. I know I'm young, and full to the brim with improbable dreams, but I know that this burning desire won't die down easy, and I know I'll fight for it to the end.

Memoir Photo 6 - Ballerina Viper

I was always sort of conflicted in that despite having a natural tendency toward sensitivity and daintyness, I wanted to prove that I was a tomboy, too.

That was why I eventually gave up ballet, which I loved, to play on the boy's soccer team (The Vipers) instead. Soccer was a big part of my life for years. It was my sport, what I dedicated myself to and pushed myself for. I played right up until we moved to Erie, which is about the time I would have been forced to move to a girl's team instead, and I always have regretted not continuing to play. Actually, I've always regretted not continuing to dance as well. I guess, although maybe I was once a Ballerina Viper, I won't ever be again.

Memoir Photo 5 - Writer from the Start

The combination of my isolated lifestyle in the mountains, lots of free time, and a love of stories and reading all culminated in my early discovery of my love of writing. I don't remember exactly what age I began (seven or eight, I think), but I remember that when we lived in Conifer I would wander down to my dad's office in the basement, climb into his giant rolly chair, and write fiction on his computer. I had my own folder in his documents for my creations. Most of them were about animals: two kittens knocking over the christmas tree (Mom sent that one out with our Christmas card), a little stingray who got lost in the ocean (that one right after I saw Finding Nemo), a researcher who discovers a telepathic ability to comminicate with wolves.

I learned very early on the rules of punctuation and sentence structure, and that's why middle school absolutely killed me: we were learning, at a very slow pace, all the rules I'd already discovered myself. I'm sort of a snob in that sense, I guess.

Anyhow, I decided when I was nine that I was going to be a novelist/naturalist when I grew up. I'm not certain that dream has entirely vanished.

Memoir Photo 4 - Bookworm

So, I used to be a really avid reader. It's only been recently that I've stopped reading, simply because I don't have enough time anymore, and the free time I do have I want to spend sleeping.

But when I was small, I raised myself on books. I taught myself to read (more or less) before preschool, and when my little brother was born and I was six years old, I remember reading a chapter book (Harry Potter?) in the car on the way to the hospital. The extensive vocabulary and voice I was exposed to via fiction made me an astonishingly precocious child.

My reading habits also meant I was never bored, ever. I could entertain myself for hours on end turning pages. My dad used to get mad at me when we went out to eat at restaurants and all he'd see was the cover of my book in front of my face. He'd tell me I'd never know what my husband looked like because on all our dates I'd be blocking my view with a book.

The library was a huge part of my childhood.

Memoir Photo 3 - Partner in Crime

I have a miniature schnauzer named Pepper. We got her from the pound after my dad's old dog Rebel died. She was a few months old and had been found in a parking lot with a broken paw, so we had to keep her in a little doggy cast the first few months we had her (which was, by the way, pretty much the most adorable thing I've ever seen).

Very quickly she became, quite obviously, my dog. We did some research and found that it's been observed that schnauzers as a breed attach themselves to one person. In my family, I was the favorite, and she was pretty much my best friend. One time she actually jumped up onto the bus as I was getting home from school because I didn't get off fast enough.

She's getting older these days, but my parents still joke that I'm going to hide her in my suitcase when I run off to college.

Memoir Photo 2 - The Contractor's Daughter

My dad is a contractor, and that giant white mansion/house up there is the home he designed for my four-person family in Conifer. It ended up being too big for us in the end, but we lived there for four years, and it was amazing. My room, I remember, was only accessible if you braved the top-floor catwalk, and it had its own loft and walk-in closet--heck, thinking back, my closet had its own loft. And balcony.

Anyhow, the point is, it was pretty darn huge. Another catalyst for my overactive childhood imagination. And my dad consistently had jobsites constructing homes similar to it, and he would let me tag along often. I would walk through his construction zones like they were second homes, and when I'd grown bored of those, I'd wander off and explore the surrounding forests with my trusty companion Pepper.

Memoir Photo 1 - Blissful Isolation

For the first decade of my life, I lived in the mountains of midwestern Colorado: first, in Evergreen, a beautiful, sprawling mountain town set in the surroundings pictured above, and then in Conifer, overlooking a valley that stretched to the barely-visible Pike's Peak in the distance. It was a gorgeous land to grow in; I'm certain that the many adventures I went on, hiking with my dog and looking for bear caves, kickstarted my imagination into overdrive.

Ultimately, though, it was rather unhealthy concerning my social skills; my closest friends lived a forty-five minute drive away, and the school bus took as long to get to my elementary each weekday morning. It didn't help that I was naturally shy from the very beginning. The isolation of the mountains turned me into a hermit. I became painfully, horribly shy, and lacked self-confidence.

So when we moved to Suburbia, Colorado (first Erie, then Louisville), and my social skills finally had a chance to develop, I had to work hard to overcome my own uncertainties.  

Umbrellas and Oceans

Journal 9/21 - Narrative Photo



This picture is super interesting to me. It's abstract. But as soon as I look at it I find myself wondering what more there is to it; who is this woman? Why is she on a beach, staring out at the ocean? Why is she carrying an umbrella, when clearly it is not raining? What's up with the stuffy jacket and long pants? (She is on a beach, after all.) Is she alone, or are there others off-frame? Who made all the other footprints in the sand? What is this girl like? A bit eccentric, we might presume, judging from the flowered-and-ribboned hat and the polka dot umbrella. What is about to happen? What brought her here?

To me, this picture is narrative photography simply because of all the questions it presents. Each question provides an opportunity to write a story in explanation. You could create an origin and a backstory for everything in this picture, and decide what the future will bring after this captured moment. Maybe the story is actually about the journey of the umbrella she holds? Or maybe it's written from the ocean's point of view, reflecting on how many different kinds of toes have dipped into its waters.

It's fascinating to ponder all the possibilities.

Are you an Image or a Reflection?

So, I chose two slam poetry videos because I couldn't decide between them.

The first one is by a girl named Kayan James:

I love this because she's so young and so unafraid to challenge the ideas of beauty and the values we hold. As a teenage girl, every line she speaks can relate directly to me. It's amazing and resonating, to listen to her beautifully accented voice blaring out that "Weaves and facades will not hide you in this transparent world," and, "If Covergirl would have made identity, she would have used it too... but they didn't, so she covered girl like the title." She is wise and witty at the same time, and the final line is super convicting:

"Are you an image, or a reflection?"

The second is called "This is for You."

I chose this because I think it's really interesting that there are three performers, and you can just tell they all really believe in what they're saying. There is so much passion and anger and apology, it takes your breath away, and I'm not a feminist, but it was really refreshing to hear how much respect they have for and are trying to communicate to women. And even though I don't agree with everything they say, they way the main performer performs almost makes me want to change my mind. It's aggressive and uplifting and really well done.

"No matter how low your self-esteem is, you do not jeapordize their existence." 

"Crazy, sexy, from the petite sisters to the big mamas, sexy and fuckin' crazy to think you have to do anything to change that."

And only now, after I've posted them both one after the other, do I realize that their messages are totally tied together: one is about abandoning the shallow ideals society has set for us, and the other is about accepting and respecting and abandoning the idea that we should have to change ourselves for the sake of shallow society.

Collaborative Poem

We have to remember
       why we started.

    There is a universe
        of knowledge
            to learn.

            We learn from meditation,
                     from people,
                from nature.

                      We sift the data,
                                   but
                          we can never create it.

                              Sometimes we are kicked down.
                                But when we get up
                                       we stand taller...

                                               until we're tall enough
                                                   to show how cool
                                                           being a dork is.

                                               I want millions of people to hear us.
                                                            I'm a whore for applause.
                                                                                        I want millions to hear me.

         Wait.

                                                  We need to give back.
                         To build each other up.

We have to remember
     why we started.

"Crazy is a Relative Term"

Beautiful, awesome, stunning, I say.
A whole different world
where the rules are shifted
(for the better).

                              Crazy, dangerous, they say.
                              Stupid and risky, they say.
                              Precarious and self-destructive.

Adrenaline, I say. Focus and poise.
Control and balance.

                              Violence and power, they tell me.
                              Crashing and breaking and dying.

Yes, I admit. But tranquility too,
rythm and wonder--

                              Constant interruption
                              of what is irenic.

Exhilaration!

                              Idiocy.

Coordination?

                              Dumb luck.

Speed and triumph,
You've got to give me that,
At least.

                             Perhaps, but
                             speed is accidental,
                             triumph is misplaced.

It is freeing!

                             It is freefall.

No. It is
flight.

A Perception of Art

"What strikes me is the fact that in our society, art has become something which is related only to objects and not to individuals, or to life. That art is something which is specialized or which is done by experts who are artists. But couldn't everyone's life become a work of art? Why should the lamp, or the house be an art object, but not our life?" -Michel Foucalt

I agree with Mr. Foucalt entirely. Too often the world twists our perception of things, and art as a concept is no exception. Society would have us believe it is an elite thing, only to be accomplished by the outstandingly creative or thoughtful or deep, when that is honestly probably the most snobbish and/or shallow way we could think of it.

My own personal definition of art ranges from trivial to cheesy: "Pretty to look at," all the way down the spectrum to "an expression of the human soul." Does not the mathematician express himself through numbers and formulaic logic? The child, open like a book, through tears and laughter and whining? The politician through speeches and image and manipulation? Everything we do is 'art.' It is us, it is ourselves, in the most personal and pure way possible--material expression of that might turn out to be a magnificent painting, or it may not. Life itself is the greatest work of art there ever was or is. Just look at the mountains driving into Boulder, or all the little flecks of color in your eyes, or all the different intonations and undertones of your own voice. We are gifted with something beautiful. You don't have to be a painter or a poet to be an artist--you just have to be here, now. Alive.

Mannnn, I told you it was gonna get cheesy up in here.

Well, Here I Am

I've only got two years left in this place before
I launch myself off into the world, into the unknown.
I think I'm okay with this. I want to really live my life.
Call me naive, but the world is waiting for me.