s o c i a l e x p l o s i o n

just a boring blog entry.

2012-01-04T17:12:00.000-08:00

I cut my hair again. Big fat surprise.

People who've known me for years didn't even notice. My fresher Brooklynite friends were so excited to see my real self that they stopped singing momentarily to blurt their approval during branch choir practice when I walked in early for church the following day. It's great to have such overwhelming approval about peeling a layer back.

I don't know what to say. New York is a weird place. Brooklyn is a weird place. Everything in my apartment has been carried in by my arms. Except the stuff my roommate carried in. And the couch. I paid a long-haired smoker with an old van like the one my mom used to drive us around in $60 to move my lovely craig'slist purchase over the threshold and into my tiny abode. He was nice.

This hands-on lifestyle and obligation to forge my own sanctuary forces me to grow up. It juices out my maternal instincts. I've started cooking again. It's become my biggest hobby. I bake only for birthdays and work/church functions. Otherwise, I'm freezing soup, packing home-made granola bars, and pecking at the spinach salad I stuff into the same ikea tupperware I bring to work for lunch everyday. Oh, and oats. I'm obsessed with eating them raw and with jam and cinnamon and milk and honey and yogurt. I don't know why.

Running, on the other hand, makes me feel like a gangster. I own this place. Ask anyone who witnesses white puffs escape my mouth at 7 o'clock every morning. The numbers are few. I've pounded the gray gum sidewalk spots in every direction. I've battled the hills in jewish, chinese, and russian neighborhoods. The cold can't keep me in.

hip-hop?

2011-06-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

A recent paper for my English class:

There is no question about the ubiquitous infiltration of hip-hop in American culture. We've all felt it bang at our car windows during stoplights, seen boxer shorts protruding from low-hanging, oversized jeans, watched graffiti tags creep onto local train cars and bridges, and witnessed grade school girls imitate sexy, Beyonce-style dance moves.

However, despite its undeniable popularity, many latter-day saints seek to shut it out. It is no secret that many popular hip-hop genres are steeped in the glorification of sex, violence, drugs, and misogyny. Two of hip-hop's legendary stars, Tupac and Biggie, were both gunned down in the 1990's. It is rare to find a top-selling hip-hop album devoid of words like “ho” or unaccompanied by a parental advisory sticker for the use of far cruder language. The New York Times op-ed writer, Brent Staples wrote in response to Lil’ Kim’s plans to release an album while serving prison time: “When it comes to rap music, what's poisonous for the culture - and dangerous for minority youth - tends to be great for album sales (par.15)”.

Despite the fact that hip-hop culture seems diametrically opposed to LDS values, why are so many of our faithful youth drawn to it? While some are surely seduced by its rugged sense of invincible carnality, peeling back a layer to examine its origins reveals something of greater interest.

Hip-hop was born in the Bronx in the shadows of the 1970's economic bust. Automobile manufacturing and steel mill jobs moved overseas for cheaper foreign labor; social services were cut with waning budgets. Public spaces in black communities became governed by lethal drug economies. It was in the face of this that hip-hop emerged, piece-by-piece, from the economical social event known as the block party. DJs competed in percussion break battles, cleverly employing the only instrument they had easy access to: existing vinyl records. Dancers judged the competitions, and MCs eventually started rhyming to the beats. In many cases, hip-hop became an alternative to gang violence as battle rapping substituted guns and knives. But above all, the greatest victory of hip-hop ingenuity lies in the fact that it provided a voice for a destitute and marginalized population (Dyson 180-182).

“When hip hop began in the South Bronx, it was the voice of the voiceless. Hip Hop artists spoke to the despair and pain of urban youth and the poor who were often without a voice...It was legendary hip hop pioneer Chuck D of Public Enemy who famously called hip hop the 'CNN of the ghetto' (Muhammad par. 1).”

As Mormons, we know that almost anything can be uttered over a pulpit. Alongside the dark and hedonistic, many hip-hop artists' work brims with positive messages from sources of great authenticity and sincerity, often offering advice about how to overcome difficult circumstances. They pay homage to their hometown, friends, family, and ancestors, often boasting of their self-determination, ingenuity, and luck in surviving along the way.

Grandmaster Flash's “White Lines (Don't Do it)” released in 1983, warned its underprivileged Bronx audience of the dangers of cocaine, addiction, and drug smuggling. The Gift of Gab cautions against average contemporary idleness in his 2001 album, Blazing Arrow: “No more of that sittin' in a slump/ No more of that coulda-woulda-shoulda junk/No more of that waiting for the inspiration, innovation or a green light--now begin/No more of that lettin' all your time pass/No more petty illusions of the mindless/It's time to expand, power from within, you're takin' over this dominion/Green light, now begin”

While hip-hop is often used to promote filth, can it also be utilized to instill personal integrity?

It is an unfortunate phenomenon that sensationalism sells. It is even more unfortunate that the white record executives who eventually marketed hip-hop to the American public knew that fact, pushing the most lewd and sexually charged hip-hop genre--gangsta rap--to a pop stature that has shadowed socially conscious hip-hop from the public view. The scholar Michael Eric Dyson wrote, “Much of gangsta rap makes voyeuristic whites and naïve blacks think they're getting a slice of authentic ghetto life when in reality they're being served a colorful exaggeration...[and] many critics argue that since gansta rap is often the only means by which many white Americans come into contact with black life, its pornographic representations and brutal stereotypes of black culture are especially harmful (180-181).”

Although fully loaded with a unique history and culture of its own, hip-hop is a medium for expressing thoughts and emotions. Our familiarity with mediums like paint, books, rock n' roll, country music, and the internet all demonstrate that mediums can become vehicles for the good or bad, depending on what the author intends.

Roger Ebert wrote: “Rap has a bad reputation in white circles, where many people believe it consists of obscene and violent anti-white and anti-female guttural. Some of it does. Most does not. Most white listeners don't care; they hear black voices in a litany of discontent, and tune out (par. 8).”

Of course hip-hop music doesn't appeal to everyone. We certainly don't need to login to iTunes and hurriedly purchase the latest socially conscious hip-hop album to display our support. But as latter-day saints, we view ourselves as culturally open and diverse. We teach our missionaries to speak numerous foreign languages in an attempt to provide the greatest amount of respect and fluidity within numerous cultures covering the earth. We seek to reach out in love to people of all backgrounds whether inside or outside of our faith for the cause of a greater good. As much as our efforts for diversity extend overseas, a quick dismissal of hip-hop culture could cause us to overlook our immediate neighbors. It's a lose-lose situation. Like most marginalized groups—early American colonizers, concentration camp survivors, and our very own pioneers—hip-hop's survivors of urban devastation reveal inspiring stories of principled persistence and hope.

I think we can all agree with Mos Def in his song, “Sunshine”: “[I don't care] what type of brand you are/I'm concerned what type of man you are/What your principles and standards are.”

never enough.

2011-05-19T18:37:00.000-07:00

Somehow I became obsessed with running. It's so weird. After 27 years of sedentary art creation/appreciation seated comfortably at desks and cushions, I suddenly decided to run so much that I injured my Achilles tendons. And every day during the three weeks that I swam or biked as I waited for my tendons to man up, I missed it.

My simple secret is this:
1. Use a treadmill, it keeps you going like a cheerleader.
2. Listen to hip hop. It doesn't matter what kind; it doesn't matter how misogynistic it is. All that matters is that it has a beat.

I promise you'll be able to run endlessly. The only thing that that will stand in the way are your underdeveloped, art-appreciating tendons. I've had to cut back to only 3 miles a day and have resorted to lifting weights with the other half-hour of my scheduled workout.

My sister was recently promoted at a job where she'd been previously rock-solid certain that they hated her. They pay her in dirt, make her beg for vacation, guard her timecard like Natzis, and slap her with frequent verbal reprimands for harmless mistakes. But, surprise, surprise, she discovered she'd been performing as one of their best employees. When spreading the good news to my mother she explained, "I just can't help but to try to do well."

So maybe that explains it better than the hip hop and the endorphin rushes. Maybe I was bred into this pack of neurotic people who have no real hobbies except to do well at things; even painful things. Because the one way that design really doesn't enrich my life is by forcing my butt into an office chair all day and coaxing me into eating snacks to stay awake all night as I wrestle with my projects. I had to combat it somehow; conquer it before it conquered me. And you can't really do well at anything until you love it.

the cloth i'm cut from.

2011-05-08T08:54:00.000-07:00

Dorothea Lange's photography currently on display in BYU's Museum of Art exhibition, "3 Mormon Towns" will not leave my mind although I first saw it first over two months ago. It was shot in 1953 in the towns of Gunlock, St. George, and Toquerville, Utah. She and Ansel Adams set out to create a photo essay to be published in Life Magazine (although they weren't on assignment.) Lange never informed her photographic subjects of the end goal of the photos, and they were subsequently shocked when it was published. Ansel Adams felt she'd betrayed and disrespected them; neither were satisfied with the end result.

Although commentary on this exhibition includes thoughts on a culture defined by hard work, religion, and small numbers, there are also statements about its documentation of post-war industrialization as the highways gradually encroached on these settlements.

Here are some images from the exhibit:

Lange's skillful command of composition and light powerfully invites you in, but collectively, the exhibition initially left me feeling a little like a stranger stooping to peer through a peephole onto a portion of my own history. Although I don't descend directly from any one of these communities, my own grandparents lived in a nearby and equally rural Escalante, Utah sometime not long after these photographs were taken.

I remembered a quote I'd seen on Luke's blog over 6 months ago:

"If you’re fifteen or so, today, I suspect that you inhabit a sort of endless digital Now, a state of atemporality enabled by our increasingly efficient communal prosthetic memory. I also suspect that you don’t know it, because, as anthropologists tell us, one cannot know one’s own culture."
BEA talk, William Gibson. 2010.

Fascinating as this quote is, it wasn't the concept of the "digital Now", but the simple reminder that "one cannot know one's own culture" that resonated with me in relation to this exhibit. If I'd been viewing images of 1950's Mormon settlements photographed by Mormon photographers, it wouldn't have provided the same experience. I imagine I would've glossed over them with perhaps a few canned thoughts about their impressive work ethic and the ease of technology we enjoy today. I love that this exhibit provides Mormons the opportunity to gaze upon a piece of their own culture through the lens of a foreigner. It points at their startling strength of conviction through their conscious isolation and rugged lifestyle. It demonstrates their ignorance of cultures outside their own as well as their will to preserve that tiny, hallowed sphere in the face of industrialized growth. These are people living on the edge of the civilization because their religious leader instructed them to do so. I think these are all valuable points to consider.

But even still, and despite the accusatory tone Lange may have felt the very moment her shutter snapped open, there is an overwhelming humanity in the people that carries a familiar sense of comfort. Her skill in capturing portraits astounds me. And admittedly, upon examining the human appeal of these images, I wonder if my insider bias as a Mormon blocks that valuable outsider's view. I know the structure of these faces and bodies. (And maybe it's because Utah Mormons are often of scandinavian descent.) They could just as well be ward members I knew growing up. They remind me of the woman my mother visited for years, who lived in the farmhouse just down our road and lived to be 102. They remind me of the elders in the ward who raised horses for a living and rode them with their kids past our house. They remind me of collecting eggs in the cousin's goat shed next door, climbing trees in bare feet, jumping ditches, and how my mom can't stop canning chicken. They make me feel like a simultaneous stranger and friend, and cause me to wonder what part I have yet to carve out in this peculiar, enduring legacy.

why we're better than you.

2011-04-19T23:05:00.001-07:00

Designers often carry a reputation of snobbery around with them whether they like it or not. (And how unfortunate that some really do like it.) I'm happy to announce that I've figured it out and that it's certainly not unjustified. I've had to think about it a lot though. I don't like being labeled as a snob, but, admittedly, my perspectives on design and how it fits in with other visually-based disciplines has served as a source of conflict in the past; namely in romantic relationships. I've dated two painters and a photographer in the past couple of years and in each of these cases, aesthetic philosophies ran deep. It wasn't so much that we squabbled over theoretical specifics; it came down to a matter of respect.

For those of you completely unfamiliar with art culture, I'll spell out the basics:

First, some definitions as I'll be using them:

studio artists- People who typically sell work in galleries, or show it in museums; the traditional role that you think of when you hear the word "artist." Painters, sculptors, performance artists, etc.

designers- people who plan and produce everyday objects for specific clients: shopping bags, cereal boxes, water bottles, magazines, wedding invitations, books, web sites, movie credits, brochures, annual reports, etc.

So here's the rub:

Studio artists think designers are snobby (because they are; I'll explain) and think of themselves as artistically superior (in many cases) because they have the courage to actually make the stuff they want. They are free to pursue the personal, the unconventional, the idealistic, the academic. They often hope to establish a gallery clientele large enough to sustain them so they don't have to teach. (Of course some of them want to teach too.)

Designers think of themselves as superior to studio artists because often the artistic, political or social statements made by studio artists are seen only by a tiny crowd composed of peers, critics, or the extremely wealthy who may be in the market for a painting. Designers believe that because we have access to such a large audiences with budgets to back us up, we have the power to change the world.

The best example of this justification for design snobbery lives in the example of Alexandr Rodchenko, a Russian artist born in 1891. Rodchenko was making it on the Moscow art scene as a painter. He was palling around with Malevich and all of these famous artists who were producing some deeply philosophical and groundbreaking work. But when the October Revolution broke in 1917 with a peasant uprising and the Bolsheviks took power, Rodchenko vowed to harness his artwork to promote their cause. By 1921, he'd tossed away his brushes and palette altogether and created this manifesto:

“Construction is the demand of our age for organization and the utilitarian use of materials. Constructive life is the art of the future. Art that fails to become part of life will be catalogued in the museum of archeological antiquities. It is time for art to organize itself and become a part of life…Away with art that is a form of escape from a life that is not worth living. Contemporary art is a conscious and organized life that is able to see and build. Any person who has organized his life, his work, and himself is a genuine artist. Work for life, and not for palaces, churches, graveyards, and museums. Work amongst all, for all, and with all, away with monasteries, institutes, studios, studies, and islands. Awareness, experience, purpose, construction, technology, and mathematics-these are the brothers of contemporary art.”

I feel like a crazy Bolshevik saying this, but I find myself agreeing with him. I love that he touches on sustainability (a big topic for designers, as the bulk of our work meets its end in the trashcan.) To me, this concept expands the idea of art to something certainly more design-centric, but also toward a greater awareness of regular people living out their regular lives.

Viewing Rodchenko's work speaks even more loudly to this idea. The beautiful composition and typography of the poster at the top of this entry imbues a timeless quality to this simple piece. It has been reinvented to advertise for Franz Ferdinand and hand bags; there is even a cute rendition involving a cat. But this poster serves a functional purpose equally well as it's aesthetic one. It translates: "BOOKS: FOR ALL INDUSTRIES OF KNOWLEDGE." It advertises reading in a simple, exciting way for a largely illiterate audience comprised of Russian peasants.

What I love about design is that we share in a responsibility to make access to information easier, directions simpler, usability of regular objects more enjoyable, all the while (hopefully) making beauty more common for the everyday person.

Rodchenko spoke of commodities as comrades in building up their new nation: meaning that the intent and purpose of every object could be designed to lift society upward, hand-in hand with the efforts of the people.

Maybe I'm a snob; maybe I'm a crazy Bolshevik. Regardless of the labels that come attached, I am so happy to be a designer.

hakuna matata.

2011-03-12T19:59:00.000-08:00

All there is to do on a ParTy Bus that's broken down with a bad alternator is drink the free beer. Sorry Annie.

The bus battery light came on in front of the Taco Time in Nephi, or at least that's what we were told. We were headed down to see Greg Caldwell's art show at the Central Utah Art Center Friday night and never made it. Thank goodness for that Taco Time.

"We were the only ones tacky enough to actually run across the street and get it! ...I feel bad about smelling up the bus."

"Don't worry Annie, we're fine. I have no regrets anyway."

While we shared a veggie burrito and empanada, the bus driver decided to continue on and try for Ephraim anyway. Our ascent up Nephi Canyon lasted about 15 minutes and ended in a lurch that left us on side of the snowy highway. We stopped right in front of a large stone and mortar memorial honoring two men and a married couple who were murdered by native americans as they attempted to settle Sanpete County in the 1800's. Far worse luck was sitting directly behind Stacey.

The minute the bus came to a complete hault she broke out the show tunes. And somehow the gay guy sitting across the aisle from her knew all the words to every song she chose. They started out with "OOOOOOOOOOOk-la-homa!" At first, it seemed fun. Me and Annie even joined it. We sang along with "Doe, a deer, a female deer", "Don't cry for me Argentina", and "Eidelweiss". There were some 80's pop and country songs in between that we weren't as familiar with; but by the time they got to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" it was a bellowing drunken mess.

"Ok Stacey! That's enough! I think that's all we can take!", shouted some people at the back of the bus. And they were 20 rows away.

As the general state of these fellow passengers graduated from tipsy to inebriated, I couldn't help but think of my mom once when we were stranded on the side of the road. We were headed to Disneyland: a real family vacation long before any of us were married or divorced or disenfranchised. We held enthusiasm, anticipation; surety that the long drive would prove well worth it. But the white hippie van with floral olive green and teal print curtains, (that smelled like a combination of cat hair and febreeze) died just as we passed Beaver. Devastation. It was really dead. The engine had blown. We didn't own another car.

While dad got a ride into Beaver and the rest of us stayed stranded, my mom pulled a lemon & lime shasta out of the cooler. I think it started out with all of us making fun of the hippie van.
"How did we think this thing could ever get us to California? Check out the plaid upholstery on these seats!"
"Hahahaha!"
"Of course it couldn't make it past the black hole of I-15! I know at least five different people who've been stranded or pulled over here."
"Really?! Hahahaha!"

Universally, i guess the best thing to do on the sides of roads is get ridiculously happy with what you've got. As my mom laughed, she crushed her now empty pop can in her hands and gave it a final smash against the top of her head. She then starts passing out cans of pop to each of us and repeating the phrase, "HAKUNA MATATA! Drink a can of POP and SMASH it on your head!" As her children, we were mystified. A seemingly coordinated pause preceded our individual fits of laughter that erupted into crying spells of joy.

bookends.

2011-03-10T23:50:00.000-08:00

I finally realized why I stopped blogging. It took a lot longer than I thought it would. I used to reward myself with it, taking homework breaks to type, sometimes in text edit if no internet, and paper and pen if no computer. The funny thing is that I laid it all out before myself from the beginning and still couldn't figure it out.

"Socialexplosion." Duh. I started writing after 3 years of working in a factory, isolated in that little box where my married life kept me away from my family and friends and school and normalcy. I had so much to say when I was finally free. Vomiting my thoughts out to everyone, to cyberspace, to friends as well as strangers provided me a beautiful liberation that I basked in so eagerly. I wanted to write everything; personal things, edgy things; to show that I could get away with it and that I didn't care who got offended or thought it was inappropriate. I aimed to prove myself; to the people who'd only seen me as a trapped girl with a sad demeanor, to those who'd ever shut me down and made me feel small. Something about the public nature of it all made it more real, more concrete, more healing. It reminded me over and over again that I have nothing to hide, not really.

Tonight I attended the wedding reception of an old coworker from my factory days at Beehive Clothing. (I am so happy for her!) I saw a few more of the old Beehive girls there. We gave one another strong hugs and caught up and reminisced. They all seemed a little shocked by me, by my demeanor, by my face and hair and shoes. It took them a second to recognize me at first glance. I left the gathering feeling a certain warm nostalgia coupled with an understanding that I must look younger now at 27 than I did at 23. I think I feel younger now too.

I went straight from the wedding reception to an art reception at the HFAC on campus. It was an epic collision of past v. future. Four of the kids from my class had their BFA shows tonight in the main gallery. They're all graduating in April. Can you believe it? I AM GRADUATING. Soon. I was accepted to BYU and to the graphic design program and we've all worked so hard and it's almost over. The internship in New York, the publication design and motion graphics classes, Kenji's BFA show; they're all over.

I don't write here anymore because I have nothing to prove anymore. Not to anyone but myself. I think I've done it all. I can swim and snowboard and think and write and work my brains out and not sleep for days and look at myself straight in the eyes standing naked in front of a mirror and design magazines and comics and use complicated software and date tons of guys and opt to be alone and love my friends and my life and family and religion and value it and respect it and try to be a better person against all kinds of odds and situations. This chapter of my life is quickly coming to a close and I cannot fully express the nervous anticipation that accompanies that fact.

For this blog to survive, I have to repurpose it: recycle it and put it to better use. We'll see how it goes. I can't just retire it because I constantly yearn to be a writer.

I'll try to come up with something.

my life will not end in a corner.

2011-02-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

I'll admit it seems very inconsiderate and disrespectful to even an anonymous person to post their personal correspondence with me so publicly.

But when I first read his email over, a sick feeling of tumult chilled my bones. It is shocking, of course, that such a near stranger would rise to so many conclusions regarding my life and faith and then seek to offer criticism and guidance on such matters. But even more than that, there is something repulsive in the tone; one part inflated, another manipulative, another blind.

I first considered not responding at all, so that he couldn't enjoy even a spiteful reply. But that tumultuous feeling did not diminish. It resonated with all the times I'd been backed into corners by controlling men, both literally and emotionally, and it amplified them in my memory throughout the day.

The way to take back my own ground was so simple, no mud-slinging required. I decided to let it speak for itself.
I wish I would've taken such measures in the past.

Far worse than being lonely and single is living your life in a corner; I think I may know that better than most.

got to leave provo.

2011-02-15T13:03:00.000-08:00

I received this email today after going out with a guy on one date, whom I met at stake conference:
Laura,

I looked over your blog again Sunday to try and figure out what to do with you:) I read an entry that I had skipped over the first time. It was the results of your dating quiz.
I found it astonishing. I don't think I or anyone else could have come up with a more accurate description of me, so I saved a copy for future reference.

1. Shy
2. Religious
3. Practical
4. Intellectual
5. Traditional
6. Adventurous
7. Big-Hearted
8. Athletic
9. Wealthy/Ambitious
10. Stylish

What makes it more significant and not random in my mind at least is the latest entry in social explosions. Your entry ended with a beautiful heartfelt prayer. The next day God sent me to you.

I never go to stake conference at my ward. I do things with my BYU ward( With permission. It's a long story). But that morning I had the clear impression to go to that building. When I sat down I had the unmistakable impression to talk to you.
There is a little more to the story but I think that will suffice in reminding you that Heavenly Father answers your prayers and cares for you. I was moved by your writing about God's answers being the most valuable and penetrating. You are an excellent writer.

My other purpose in writing is to explain to you my concerns. This is definitely not something I would do if it weren't for the circumstances already mentioned. And if I weren't interested in you. Maybe my perspective can help you. I hope you won't be offended or find it pretentious.

When your friends say that they can't understand why you're still Mormon, doesn't that send chills down your spine? From the other side, I have the same confusion that they do. I don't see how you can still be Mormon either. With all the gravity of the world pulling at you, you will not be able to stay in two worlds. NPR is not a problem, it is a symptom. My NPR roommate was torn apart for the same reasons. He was also a perfect 'What White People Like' fit. That book is funny for a reason, and that is because it is an honest description of people puffed up in pride and self absorption and who delight in being different for the sake of being superior. He talked about how he struggled with his testimony and how he wanted to start living as a secular Mormon, but in reality he was just a coward for clinging to his religion . He just moved to Seattle, and I have very little hope that he'll stay true to his covenants. Oh and he loved hip hop and rap. He said he wasn't liberal, just more moderate than the typical Utahan. He passionately supported minorities in their victimization paradigm. Hip hop culture is corrupt. Just look at the cover of the KWest's albumn. I think looking for artistry there like looking for diamonds in the sewer. Your ex liked hip hop. What did it do for him?

Why am I saying this? Because I want to be with someone who flees the darkness and seeks the light. Who is willing to sacrifice things that have merit if they chase away the Spirit. Who listens to conference talks as regularly as NPR podcasts. And partly because I have my own weaknesses toward the things of the world and I need all the support I can get. At this point I can't get myself to pursue something with you. I felt our date was fun but it seemed like it was all about you.

So there it is, if nothing else this may help you to empathize with those judgmental guys. If you are blaming them I hope it will encourage you to look inward. I think you are a giving person, intelligent and beautiful. I wouldn't presume that you would even want to pursue something with me but if you still thought after reading this that we could be compatible, I would be open to going snowboarding.

Your friend,
xxxxxxxxxx

heartsick.

2011-01-29T12:15:00.000-08:00

I have no crushes right now. Not one. Only regrets over past relationships and interactions that I wish would've waxed into relationships. I've married myself to design and the podcasts and music that keep me company while work in isolation. And I've been doing a lot better work.

Because I realized something weird about myself. I MUST work in a fairly isolated situation to get anything accomplished. Sure, I can execute orders or plans in company, but my brain work must be done alone. It's funny that I realized so late. I think my insistance to work among friends stifled some progress that could've been realized while I've been in the BFA program.

Socializing is so enjoyable to me that it causes a sort of automatic ADD. There is nothing I enjoy in life more than an engaging conversation and it always feels like a worthy distraction.

But as I've spent so much more time alone than usual, the less frequent engaging conversations I share with my closest friends all echo a taste of the same sadness. Everyone wants to get married; all of us are lonely. Maybe it's just because we're getting a little older. So we're trying everything. We're all growing our hair, doing our makeup faithfully, losing weight, and reading dating books.

I'm telling you, it's breaking my heart. They are all the kind of people where it makes you sick to ever imagine that they might feel desperate because they really never should. And these aren't the kind of girls who sit around waiting. They are educated (with graduate degrees for the most part) and they're doing work they enjoy. But careers are a poor substitute for love; the big, deep-down kind you imagine where every part of you is safe with somebody else. Success holds such a cold uncertainty.

It is one of my deepest prayers and hopes that this sadness meets its solutions soon.

james victore.

2011-01-21T09:43:00.000-08:00

James Victore. Hilarious, honest, entertaining, brilliant, crude? Yes. Yes oh yes. I saw him speak last night for AIGA. I laughed a lot.
I woke up this morning and realized something about him though. Something that apparently had to be processed in my subconscious overnight. He referred to women in only two different contexts:

1. He used live chicks on a project once and ordered them in from Iowa to his studio in Brooklyn. He said he told his female intern to figure out what chicks eat to prepare for their arrival.

2. He said things a few times about how he likes naked women and how they like him back. He showed us a few sexy pictures as proof where he'd painted all over their skin.

Here is the clincher for me. He brought up his son multiple times. He referred to his son as being the most important thing in the world to him, his favorite and best work he's ever created. He wore a wedding ring on the correct hand and finger, but never mentioned his wife, not once, not even in passing.

Another big-time graphic designer visited BYU and spoke to our class a few months ago. He referred to his wife only as his "business partner" (they run a studio together) and later told us a story about flirting with a younger woman on the subway.

It is disheartening coming from these men whom I admire in so many other contexts.

One last thing. Radiolab. I just love it. I could gulp it up and swallow and listen for hours on end. Public radio is a lovely thing. It is an education for those who aren't in school, a friend to the friendless, a lover to the loveless. It wants to tell you stories and keep you laughing as well as informed. I have a new celebrity crush on Jad Abumrad.

no image could do this justice.

2011-01-12T18:53:00.000-08:00

The most beautiful girl in the world was in my high school figure drawing class. I remember trying to describe her after the first day.
"She's so beautiful the air around her stops moving."

I can't really think of how to describe her features. I'm satisfied to say that a photograph could scarcely do her justice because her posture was equally captivating. She did have: long, thick, blonde hair, full lips, an angular nose with a satisfyingly smooth point, high cheek bones, a thin, yet curvy frame. She didn't wear too much makeup. She was from a wealthy family in Alpine too. I was intimidated out of talking to her although she was a grade beneath me.

My drawings of her in class when it was her turn to model failed consistently. I was always confronted with my utter lack of capacity to capture any portion of what it was like to look at her.

In that height of all of my insecurities concerning physical appearance, I often wondered what it would be like to be that beautiful.
"Bad." I thought out of jealousy. "Probably that much boy attention would be annoying. Probably all girls would hate you."
I told myself that nobody would ever regard her personality because the overwhelming beauty would overtake whatever item of real interest there was sleeping beneath it. That obviously happened with me. The only question I ever imagined asking her was what it was like to be that attractive.

She died last November; age 26. Although she'd only been briefly ill, her health suffered from drug and alcohol abuse, is the story I was told. And to make things much worse for her family, her father died less than a month later from cancer or something like that.

I guess I don't really know what to say. I feel like I could wrap this all up with some sort of trite ending that doesn't feel fully honest.

I still want to know how it is to be that beautiful; I really do wish I could watch some version of her life unfold in a movie or a book so I could understand how things stretched toward that tragic end.

And how strange it is that I'm writing about some girl I never even really knew just because she was unbelievably gorgeous. I'm as superficial as anyone, I guess.

blasting in the new year.

2011-01-03T21:19:00.000-08:00

A collaborative piece I did with my 2 yr old niece, Mattie:
I guess it's time for some goal-making:

1. Figure out how to wear fake eye lashes.

2. Convince myself i'm getting better by kissing some boys (not too many) and feeling like I really mean it.

3. Graduate.

4. Blog at least once a month just so that the stuff i did last summer and the boys I dated 2 years ago look further away than they do right now.

5. Read even just one verse of scripture every day.

6. Lose weight by eating less and having it always be healthy ( i think i still won't have tons of time to exercise beyond riding my bike around.)

(I have listened to Joni Mitchell's "Blue" so many times I don't even have to stop it to write this because I know it so well I don't have to listen.)

Is it strange to feel so inspired by funerals? I attended the funeral of Whitney's grandmother I guess mostly because I believe in going to funerals and most especially because Whitney was asked to speak. She did a fantastic job. I wish I would've recorded it. She illustrated so clearly all the ways this woman I'd never met had had such a positive and profound influence on her life. Whitney Joy would've never been Whitney Joy without her grandmother, Joy Whitney.

Maybe the strangest thing about funerals is that I always just feel like I need to have kids afterward. I never really feel like having kids. It's always something I want for the future, but never for the present. Maybe the two will meet up some day. Maybe after somebody's funeral. Maybe I'll name her Joy.

first comic.

2010-12-08T00:28:00.000-08:00

This is for Hilary and the Lukes.
(click on the image to view larger.)

pretty dramatic.

2010-12-06T14:09:00.000-08:00

Sometimes phrases repeat themselves in my head over and over accompanied by pictures. This was the one this weekend:

I turned twenty seven with a hole in my heart.

i am alive.

2010-11-27T07:56:00.000-08:00

And my mother's christmas cactus is blooming:The reasons I haven't blogged in so long? You'd never believe me if I told you. It has nothing to do with this, but I'm posting it anyway:

Nobody knew I had curly hair.

2010-10-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

I even wondered.

a little love affair.

2010-09-28T22:45:00.000-07:00

I took the time to sketch, take pictures, and read some poetry. I fell in love with the author, Sherman Alexie. The wikipedia photo isn't flattering, but his gift of language coupled with an honest, funny, and vulnerable sensibility captivates me. It's times like this when I feel I need an artist.

Read this poem, if you've got the time.
(I'd love to read it to you out loud if I could.)

"Song"

Brown-skinned women
I dreamed of you
long before
any of you decided
to dream about me.
I slept on the top bunk
of my U.S. Army Surplus bed

and pretended one of you was asleep on the bottom bunk
beneath me. Too young to fully understand what that physical
presence would've meant, I still knew it was what I needed. But
like anything believed too hard, those dreams always failed me. I
remember all your names, Indian girls I loved, Dawn, Loretta,
Michelle, Jana, Go-Go, LuLu, all of you Spokane Indian princesses
who never asked me to slow dance

to the music
that always found its way
into the Tribal School
and it wasn't only drums
we heard, you know?
The reservation has a symphony
complicated as any
and we all practiced
the fingering
on the piano, on the pine trees
on the secondhand trumpets

but I was always sat outside the chords, just a little too short
for the melody, and too skinny for the tempo. Oh, I loved it all from a
distance, from inches and miles away, from a generation removed
it seemed. And I loved you all, crazy and brave, in your young
Indian arrogance

and I love you still
when I see any of you
all these years later
often broken
and defeated by this reservation
by alcohol
and your own failed dreams.
I love you
still

when I see you in the bars, your faces scarred and scared.
Sometimes, I think I love you because your failures validate mine
and because my successes move me beyond the same boundaries
that stop you. I can be as selfish as any white or Indian man.
Sometimes, I think I love you because you all still slow dance with
the next Indian man who might save you. I can hear your bar
voice crack into questions: What tribe are you? Are you married?
How long have you been sober/drunk? Sometimes, I think I love
you

because it's always easiest
to love the unloved
to dream
about the dreamless
to watch an Indian woman
just this side
of beautiful
slow dance
to a sad song
and never have to worry
about making her any promises

because this distance I've created is perfect. I can never be hurt.
Don't you see? I am afraid; I am not afraid. Don't you understand?
I know some of you will die in car wrecks. I know some of you
will die of cirrhosis. I know some of you will die of a broken
heart. But more than that, I know some of you will live, will learn
how to breathe this twentieth century oxygen

and learn how
to dance a new dance
with the rhythm
only Indians possess
with the rhythm
innate
practiced
beautiful

and I can hope you'll find your new warriors. Believe me, the
Indian men are rising from the alleys and doorways, rising from self-hatred and self-pity, rising up on horses of their own making.
Believe me, the warriors are coming back
to take their place beside you
rising
beyond the "just surviving"
singing
those new songs
that sound
exactly
like the old ones.

I discovered that Sherman Alexie published his first book of poems when he was my age. I yearn to be a writer.

new glasses.

2010-09-18T19:53:00.000-07:00

Meri said they're too dorky. I think I like them.

waiting for hell to freeze over.

2010-09-02T22:33:00.000-07:00

All my mom wanted to do for her birthday was walk.
"You know...like we did in Brooklyn just getting around."

Within the first few days of landing on Utah soil, my allergies flared up. Not only was I congested, but little spots on my hands and face and feet broke into hives. I couldn't sleep all of the way through the night because my glands were swollen and breathing was only possible sitting up. I felt in part that my body was rejecting an abrupt transition to this arid desert climate and the types of vegetation that thrive in it. I doubled up on my routine dose of antihistamine and I couldn't tell the difference.

My mom requested that we drive somewhere, away from the fields surrounding the house so I wouldn't have to breathe the pollen in. She pointed at the parking lot of American Fork High School as we approached.
"Let's just park here."
We started walking north; then uphill to the east; toward the temple. We took a steady, relaxed pace and walked side by side in silence unless my mom saw a flower or shrub notable enough to draw my attention in. We circled around outside the gate and then entered the grounds and circled again. We saw a hummingbird and admired more flowers.
"Look; Snap Dragons..."

I saw a doctor at the student clinic. He prescribed a nose spray.
"Isn't this a temporary solution?", I asked.
"Of course. Anything I can prescribe now will be temporary. You just need to make it until the first heavy frost."

I believe that despite advanced theories and technologies, the most valuable and penetrating solutions are acts of God. In the meantime, all we can do is cope the best we know how.

time grows short.

2010-08-12T12:44:00.000-07:00

A catastrophe occurred this summer. Although I wasn't there to witness it, my soul exists very near its epicenter.

It's been interesting to observe my reaction. I've felt stripped down to the skeleton of my character and belief. I've made snap judgements based on intuition alone. It's exposed what I'm made of.

It's awakened an urgent yearning to be with all the ones I love, no matter where they are or where they've been. It's made me feel like growing up, like having babies; like living a life that recognizes above all else that we exist to learn to love others.

I feel like life is short; I must do the most important things first to pack them all in while I am still breathing.

Yes, I will be ok. The world will be ok. But this stuff really does change you.

hard times.

2010-08-01T16:58:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, but Google told me to take the wrong train last Friday morning. I was supposed to get off at "9th St." from the R and got off at "9th Ave" from the D instead (both were two stops down on their respective lines.) When I finally recognized my mistake, I was 50 minutes away from my destination and already 15 minutes late for a meeting with a freelance client who's number I didn't have. It started raining and I also didn't have my umbrella.

When I finally arrived an hour and a half late, completely soaked, the client was gone. His wife greeted me at the door with a smile and let me in. She'd been feeding the most beautiful, smiling, dark-haired baby. On the sofa sat two soft and lazy cats. She gave me the files I needed and wished me well.

I can never feel too sorry for myself in New York. And I've had some bad times here. There is so much life going on around me that causes me to see outside myself.

I lost my way to the subway station after getting the files and the rain escalated to a downpour. I watched homeless men, asian tourists, muslim women, art students, and small families all rush to find shelter.

money.

2010-07-21T15:08:00.000-07:00

I witnessed disorienting amounts of wealth over the weekend. I didn't know it really existed. The puzzle pieces I'd formed of reality and media and fantasy couldn't jam together hard enough to fit altogether in my head. I grew sheepish as I recognized the lack of any personal reference point in the face of it.

Part of the vision of this wealth took place in a massive outdoor tent, perching on stilts so that it stood level although it sat halfway up a luscious green hill. Inside, there were hundreds of people all dancing and drinking under lights and vines and feasting at immaculate place settings; all wearing the most beautiful pressed and tailored and exotic clothing I'd ever seen people actually wear. I sat on the perimeter and watched for hours. It was beautiful despite its foreign flavors.

As I walked away, the lights spilling from the tent cast my silhouette, making my legs look unrealistically long and feminine like an anime characters'. The stars that I'd missed in the city twinkled over me and a lightning bolt in the distance sporadically created an exciting monstrous glow.

I remembered some Joni Mitchell lyrics and sang them to myself out loud:

All the people at this party, they've got a lot of style
they've got stamps from many countries
they've got passport smiles
some are friendly
some are cutting
some are watching it from the wings
some are standin' in the center,
giving to get something

I retreated to a tiny rental car; identical to the one I owned before it was smashed in an accident last December. It felt like home. I opened the book my mother lent me about Hmong immigrants living in Merced, "The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down." The humbling chapter I chose provided the leveling I sought. I cried under the yellow dome light at the tenderness of two human beings who reach beyond blame, resentment, and vast cultural differences to provide comfort to one another in the face of tragedy.

Then, like any child suffering overstimulation, I slept deeply in that car seat until it was time to leave.

elvis.

2010-07-14T19:50:00.000-07:00

Between me and Elvis, I've always had the upper hand. The legendary being who pop culture itself was invented for and around could always be diminished with two great family legends. I used them to introduce myself on the first day of class in Jr. High a few times:

"My name is Laura Barlow and my biggest claim to fame is that Elvis taught my uncle how to ride a bike," or
"I am Laura Barlow. Elvis asked my aunt out on a date. But she rejected him."

Most of the time the teachers would exaggerate an gaped-mouth response; maybe they thought I was lying; but both accounts are, in fact, true.

My mother was born in Memphis and lived in the same trailer park that he moved to when he was thirteen.

The only qualifier I ever heard was that my aunt, Patsy, had actually been friends with Elvis's sister and that he only flirted with Pat when she was sleeping over at his house as a guest of his sister's. But even in the wake of the exaggerated truth of that story still stood the factor that won me the upper hand:
"But Pat never liked him. . . said he seemed slimy." My mom lapses into the southern accent of her youth as she says it.

In part, it was easy to minimize the real Elvis all of these years because I didn't know who he was. Yes, I'd heard a few songs here or there on Back to the Future and from the toy speakers of the red, velvet, Valentine's Day chocolate box my Dad bought for my mother one year; but beyond that; I never even thought to care.

My oldest brother, Tom, once caught a lizard in the desert that he named Elvis. Even as I type the name now, it reminds me more of a brown lizard who lived in a glass tank with sand and rocks; who died when my little brother, James, tried too hard to catch him when he once got out.

A friend put the song "Blue Moon" on a mix for me and I listened to it for the first time at two o'clock in the morning on a 2 train headed to Flatbush from 96th Street through my yellow, skull-candy headphones last night. My entire countenance awoke and hung on every note. I was dazzled, starstruck, and pinched both of my arms to check if I really was the living niece of these living people who'd interacted with living man who produced these living sounds. I put the song on repeat until I got home.

I wish I'd asked Uncle Ted what it was like to to ride bikes with Elvis before either of them died.

shoes.

2010-06-18T16:05:00.000-07:00

Does every woman need a pair of ridiculous catwalk heels?
I may or may not have just bought these in nude.

B for Barlow.

2010-06-18T02:31:00.000-07:00

There is am image of something I saw on the subway that will not leave my mind: An older woman, wearing a wig and a rosy complexion who stepped on the B train with her middle-aged daughter who possessed the same coloring. They had the same round lips and blue, deep-set eyes and carried shopping bags in their identical wirey fingers. They sat their bags down on the floor and spoke happily with their hands in close proximity to one another's faces the entire way home. It was love, pure and simple, and it filled the entire subway car.

It is an obvious fact that we cannot pick who we are born to, and who is born to those people along with us. But after many several ins and outs with family members throughout the span of my life, it has also become just as obvious a fact that we must love those who were given to us in the best way we can; regardless of religion, politics, sexual orientation; and even in the face of things they've done and said to directly offend us. Sometimes it feels outside the realm of possibility to do, depending on the circumstance, but I feel that makes it no less important.

I am so grateful for my present family. And I feel the loss of those I knew as family when I was married.

the girl who cried love.

2010-06-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

I half-way expect people to roll their eyes when I tell them I'm dating someone new. I've now had five different boyfriends within the last nine months so I can't really blame them.

There are, of course, so many things to consider carefully trailing the wake of divorce. After falling so madly in love and living the most epic failure of my life as the result, it's become extremely difficult to trust my own instincts. I've attempted to date people outside of my comfort zone; people I've had little in common with, close friends, younger boys, older boys, in many shapes and heights and sizes. The more I date, the more I recognize my glaring inability to make a firm decision about anyone. And, in part, it's because I do genuinely like them all.

Objectivity is a difficult thing when it comes to people and the way I love them, so I've made special efforts to reason things out. I've made lists of relationship non-negotiables, posted blog entry after blog entry about what it is I want in a man just to make sure it's documented as a public reminder to myself, read self-help books, and discussed the topic so thoroughly with all of my most trusted confidants, but at the end of the day, I know I really am left to my own devices.

I went shopping with Josh (my newest boyfriend) last Friday in Soho. He needed some things for summer weather. Fridays are the busiest days for shopping here and we chose to patronize some of the most popular stores. I bought very little for myself and had plenty of time to observe his methods. Unaffected by the throngs of people, he'd approach the rack of something he thought he'd like and stand looking at it for about 10 seconds. If the item made the cut, he'd remove it from the hanger and sling it over his forearm. If not, he'd approach another rack. And it's not that he'd rather not take the time; Josh is, in fact, a man of discerning style.

When I informed our mutual friend about the formation of our relationship, this is the first thing she said (completely unprovoked): "Isn't it great to be dating someone who just knows what they want? I know that's just how he is."

My answer then and now: Yes. Very much so. And I hope to learn something from it.

hollister, nyc.

2010-05-24T21:16:00.001-07:00

Welcome to Hollister, NYC. The muscly man pictured here is one of two models hired to stand outside the opening that wafts regular clouds of stinky perfume into the street. I've tripped over their flip flops as I dodge European-tourist-oglers to reach the door to my building (which is right next door.)

On sunny days they apply zinc to their noses. On colder days, they wear hoodies. On mild days, the hoodies go unzipped.

It feels absolutely absurd to me that they help bring traffic to the store, but they must. They're there, all day, everyday, unless it's stormy.

It feels like advertising stripped down to a banal level; like you're actually watching the ground beef being extruded and shrink wrapped and you eat the burger anyway.

Sometimes I feel bad for them; like if their modeling careers were really taking off they wouldn't have to stand in the sun all day and posing with old ladies having pictures taken in their arms. I try to hide it now when my laughter erupts.

graffiti sunday.

2010-05-23T20:35:00.000-07:00

Sundays in New York involve enjoying the free art.

(this one is right next to gowanus canal on union st. [that i catch on my bare-footed walks home from church.)
Saturdays involve playing at the park.(compliments of Josh Brown's iphone.)

girl power!

2010-05-15T08:57:00.000-07:00

I'm finding the Hynynen sisters to be more inspirational all the time.
From Suvi
From her sister, Vilja.
P.S. The blue text above links to videos for your watching enjoyment.

still hate cats.

2010-05-10T12:48:00.001-07:00

but this photo stole my heart.

best!

2010-05-09T19:05:00.000-07:00

I often hear my mother's voice. I hear her when I've been too loud at parties, if I treated someone with a lack of consideration, or when I notice that the toilet needs a scrubbing. She is my voice of good will and I often hear her imagined encouragement to do the right thing. I like it most of the time.

My mother is also my greatest earthly constant. She has treated me with more encouragement, forgiveness, and patience than anyone in the face of my simultaneous lack of kindness toward her. In the absence of friends, boys to date, money, and success, she always available for meaningful conversation and a meaningless movie.

I hope to understand this kind of love someday.

I need to marry someone who takes care of me only half as well as she does.

Thanks mom.

work is good, but dinner is better.

2010-05-08T06:19:00.000-07:00

My internship:Oh wait, that's Nate's dog, Uintah.

My desk at Modern IDENTITY:
The view out the window:
It's been really busy. Modern IDENTITY has been working on rebranding this, which you can tell has been a lot of work. (don't worry, it looks much better now.) I've been working until about 7pm everyday and then have had a lot of freelance work to do when I get home to Suvi's apartment.
Last night, after freelancing, Suvi and I ate here. (everything has a website in nyc!-- except Modern IDENTITY [but don't worry, Mim. The point of my internship in large part IS to put some key things in place in order to launch their website.])Dinner was fabulous. Restaurants provide an atmosphere most conducive to conversation of any I've encountered in my life. And I think it's probably even better in New York than places with more space. The extra volume of a metropolitan setting adds privacy/anonymity and the limited space ensures greater intimacy as it enforces sitting in closer proximity to your dining companion. And when your dining companion is as pleasant and patient and wise as Suvi it becomes a memory; a profound moment when you gain a greater perspective on where your life is really at; and remember that feeling gratitude is the only real way to be happy in life.

brooklyn noises.

2010-05-05T20:03:00.000-07:00

I have been famous for my ability to sleep. It used to be my cure for all bad moods, R-rated films, and boredom. I could sleep anytime and anywhere and in almost any position. I once fell asleep while Tom was hanging sheet rock with a nail-gun in the room next door. I once slept through an entire Mogwai concert by inserting a pair of earplugs and resting my head on the bar toward the back of the venue. The truth is, I grew up in a nosy home. When things are too quiet, it means I am alone. When I am alone, I am more likely to feel lonely.

When I finally got my own bedroom at age 17, I acted excited. The truth is, I was a bit scared of sleeping downstairs by myself. I couldn't hear my mom vacuuming or the clank of her dish-washing in the middle of the night; only the vague, creepy noises that sounded through the heating vents overhead and occasional branches scraping against the windows at the provocation of the wind.

I arrived in New York at 5:30am after a sleepless night on the plane. Dylan met me to lug my bags through the urine-scented subway stations that led me to my new apartment. Suvi let me sleep in her bed for a hours and then woke me for church at noon. My legs were noodles as I ran to catch the bus in my best high heels. (I honestly feared that the entire lower half of my body would give out on me.) And church was enoyable/ torturous because of my enthusiasm at my own arrival and my simultaneous want for sleep. After church there was no time to return to the apartment. There was a fireside and meal in only a few hours, so I opted to sleep in the Relief Society room in the little Park Slope, Brooklyn church building. I lined three padded chairs in a row in front of the window and found a quilt meant for humanitarian aid in the unlocked closet.

There was so much noise! People filled the sidewalks in their shorts and sundresses and cars blared hip-hop songs as they stalled at the intersections. It felt wonderful.

may day, may day.

2010-04-30T11:05:00.000-07:00

For some reason every time I first see my final grades, I choke. It's not like they're that bad, just that I always want straight A's and I am pretty far from that.

I could cry over grades. Easily. And it makes me feel superficial, if not immature, like a kid throwing a tantrum.

It then forces me reflect on all of the things that cannot be numerically summed that I don't choke on: break-ups, moves, signing student loan documents, devastating current events. Why don't I cry over these things?

I had the opportunity yesterday to talk with an old friend that I haven't spoken with in almost two years. She is one of the freest spirits I know. She's been reading the Book of Mormon with a greater zeal than I'd seen in the past and expressed the new commitment she felt to the gospel in the most ethereal, open terms I've ever heard. It was refreshing to say the least; but also allowed me to pause and recognize the stark contrast that existed between the two of us.

Yes. I've been living a life governed by fear that I will be hurt again the way I was hurt in marriage. It's meant that I've become insensitive and selfish and established a solid ability to rationally justify why I think that's all okay.

There are some people I've hurt pretty badly and who's wounds I never even stopped to acknowledge. I then only took the time to justify why that was okay for me to do.

When I move to Brooklyn on May 1st I will:

Read the Book of Mormon in the sanctuary of Suvi's apartment.

Watch people when I am on the street and in the subway.

Figure out how to be soft again.

totally worth it.

2010-04-11T14:43:00.000-07:00

Taking a moment to listen to this would seriously enrich your life. I couldn't help but cry.

I've been thinking lately of hopping on top of some blogging soapbox (again) to declare that in this world of summing oneself up into concise online profiles composed of brief lists of interests and blurbs about who we all are, that real compatibility seems lost under heaps of superficial compost. We will never be happy in a relationship with someone else simply because we are both "indie" or "hip" or "athletic" or "punk" or because we "get" one another. It is good to have things in common, but unless a relationship is genuinely founded on selflessness, faith, hope, charity, and patience, the happiness found in it will diminish to nothingness.

I am living proof. If there is anything I learned from surviving such an unbearable marriage for three years, it is this. Adam and I liked all of the same books and films and music, but none of that meant anything when it came to actually helping one another through life. The thread of contention that wove itself through the course of our courtship became the only reliable consistency that existed.

Amen.
Now I'll get back to my homework...

5 a day.

2010-04-07T19:13:00.000-07:00

5 a day. from laura barlow on Vimeo.

advocacy for design students.

2010-03-29T15:10:00.001-07:00

My friend Luke created and hung this amongst all of the ads it so accurately mocks on the cork board outside the BFA lab.
It gets me every time.

love + ¡nternsh¡p

2010-03-25T13:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes blogs are for making announcements:

1. I will be moving to the fine city of New York sometime not long after finals to intern at Modern Identity. (Check out their incredibly minimalist website here.) I cannot fully describe my excitement.

2. I've been dating a guy so incredible that I've been not only willing, but excited, to sit through an entire basketball game without opening my sketchbook or laptop once (with finals quickly approaching) in order to watch him play. I'll be attending a soccer game tonight with the same enthusiasm and purpose.

50 ft woman!

2010-03-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

Made this for my motion graphics class. It had to be a promo for the SyFy channel usind 3d layers in AfterEffects. I finished it at 5:30 this morning.

balancing act.

2010-03-23T07:08:00.000-07:00

In a brief, but emergency state of loneliness last week, I recognized I had the impulse to pull out my laptop and work on my UNO card redesign instead of clamoring for human interaction.

Design is a good friend to have. It doesn't make you vulnerable the way relationships do. It always yields visible results based on your effort, sensitivity, and skill. And it always needs you because there is perpetually something more you could do to make it better.

But there are those times when design feels like it's rejecting you: when a trusted design authority looks you in the eyes and tells you just didn't hack it; when a project just isn't gelling regardless of the hours you've put in; when you feel no sense of personal satisfaction despite the praise/encouragement of others. In these moments, I only want to be held by human arms and appreciated for anything but my artistic sensibilities.

There must be a balance I can strike...

i am a nonstop design worker.

2010-03-22T15:02:00.000-07:00

iamnotanartist.org
Thanks to Jenny for the link. It hits home.

natural triumph.

2010-03-19T15:47:00.000-07:00

I don't remember using the locker room in high school. It's possible I avoided taking all P.E. classes that involved such an uncomfortable place. Maybe I just changed my clothes in a large bathroom stall intended for people in wheelchairs.

I do distinctly remember using the locker room in 7th grade. If I were standing in Mountain Ridge Jr. High School right now, I'm pretty sure I could walk to the exact locker I used. It was two rows up and 3 from the right. I'd heard locker room horror stories my whole life about kids getting beat up and having their anatomy made fun of from my older siblings. I'm pretty sure that reading R.L. Stein's "Cheerleader Evils" series didn't help either. It was a scary place even though I can't remember one unkind or scary thing actually happening there.

I had occasional rashes then that grew out from the crook of my left arm. In the same year I developed some sort of oozing sore on my neck as well as the first signs of breasts. It was emotionally sensitive to have to change from a training bra into a sports bra (which was pretty much the same thing.) And although I probably weighed only 90 lbs, I felt like a mammoth compared to the girls who only weighed 80.

Then there were the team sports that followed changing: Football, basketball, soccer. I'd never played these games before and everyone seemed to assume that everyone else automatically knew all the rules. I'd hoped that like in all my other classes that if I simply didn't talk I'd be left alone; but P.E. required participation. I dreaded it in a daily basis and muffled my way through running, kicking, hitting, and catching enough to get a grade.

Now I voluntarily shower in a locker room at least twice a week after swimming in a class of all males and change into/out of a swimsuit in front of other girls with no issue or hestitation.

How happy I am to have grown up.

i'd be lying if i said i wasn't obsessed with this.

2010-03-13T12:07:00.000-08:00

Suvi entered her Brooklyn living room dramatically dancing to this song on her iphone as she held it in one of her hands. I've been hooked ever since.

Pop music is such a funny thing. I genuinely love this song--I think it has an addictive quality that's reacted perfectly with my brain chemistry--but I laugh almost every time because of the words (which are only accentuated by the cheesiness of the video.) It arises within me a question. Does everyone listen to it as casually as me or are there people who genuinely feel like making love to this? In reality though, I'm sure there are large groups who lie on both sides of this spectrum. Maybe I'm just jealous of the people who can take it seriously? No, probably not. And maybe it doesn't matter because it's served its purpose well: It may be one of the only songs I'm willing to pay $1.29 for on itunes in order to get my fix.

this is why i never get bored.

2010-03-13T01:02:00.000-08:00

macro.

2010-03-11T22:12:00.000-08:00

I took more photos of the ground outside my airplane window than any person or thing in New York City. I find them completely irresistible, like they hold some greater knowledge about typographic grids and visual structure than I could ever hope to learn from a book.

If only my trip had stayed so subtly artistic.

Sometimes I'm certain my life could be made into a movie; or a soap opera. And if I didn't hold personal blog rules about talking about direct events that involve others, I'd have quite a yarn to spin. I'd explore the sting of broken dreams, betrayal, the desperation of separated lovers, confessions of unrequited love, cutthroat competition, the joy of new friendships, and the comfort that can only reside in the company of the oldest of friends-- all ending neatly in a satisfied package of personal victory (I hope).

At the very least, I'll provide the illustration of most of these events. It'll be like a choose your own adventure story. Use your imagination to fill in the details:

tulsa sunday.

2010-02-24T00:58:00.000-08:00

I made this for my motion graphics class in the wee hours of the morning. Thanks to Wayne for introducing me to Lee Hazlewood.

i am not bitter.

2010-02-21T10:02:00.000-08:00

I declared about a month ago: "It's the most unusual thing, but for some reason, and for probably for the first time in my life, I sincerely do not want a boyfriend."

I'm sure I've stated that on a number of occasions and claimed even the same degree of sincerity; but it was most likely when I'd recently faced open rejection and wanted to seem independent/indifferent (in which case it would've completely disproven what I was going for.)

The unusual thing is that for the first time in my life it was sincere and I couldn't figure out why.

If you've known me at all, you've known that I can be completely boy-obsessed/crazed/smitten/nauseatingly-excited. Whitney started making a special book of dating rules for me because she worries about how quickly I can fall for relationships where it's obvious to everyone else that they are they silliest/worst idea ever. (I want that, by the way, Whit.)

After my divorce I would honestly think sometimes: "Don't be bitter, don't be bitter, don't be bitter," in those moments when I felt it the most. But honestly, after 10 years of dating failure and rejection intermixed with divorce, how much unbitter persistence can one have?

All of that bitterness I've held back has transformed itself into a more subtle form of silent sabotage. Now when I am with someone I actually like, I probably spend 50-70% of my time with them doing/saying things that are likely to disprove our compatibility as a couple and push them away. Things like: spraying clorox all over my filthy bathroom 2 minutes before their arrival so that they have to wait while I clean it, talking only about graphic design and school and the internship I hope I get this summer, and saying things like,"I don't date boys with six packs", "I am the worst person to date ever", and "Do you think we have anything in common?"

The most ridiculous part is that I honestly don't get that I'm doing it until serious moments of introspection.

back from the desert.

2010-02-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

Last year on a van trip when we were driving somewhere south of Las Vegas my friend, Annie, exclaimed, “Is it a town? No. Just a big shopping center.” I relived that instance inside my head a few times on the way down to Lake Havasu, AZ to visit my sister and her family this weekend.

For some reason my sister, Marie, has always chosen to live in the desert and I've never understood it. She eagerly attended Southern Utah University after graduating from high school and took her first job as an English teacher in Ely, NV. Miriam and I visited her in Ely for the first time about ten years ago. I remember parking in the cold night air outside that dark apartment. Yellow light glowed from the windows, but didn't dim the unusual brilliance of the stars. Her only companion, Jax, a white Jack Russell terrier puppy, barked a vicious greeting at the door and we all embraced as sisters upon entering.

She gave us a quick tour of her one bedroom home when a lump formed in my throat and my chest grew tight. I couldn't prevent feeling overwhelmed that those few square feet constituted her tangible existence. Outside of the forks she'd chosen so carefully, the potted plants, the large orange leather chair all housed in those little glowing rooms there existed a coarse wasteland without end; unwelcoming and barren. The little off-brand shops we wandered in and out of the next day offered no consolation. I cried on the drive home because I disliked the idea of leaving her alone in the desert.

I drew a picture for my art class of a single shoe lost in the desert. I drew it optimistically large and upright, as though it was trying to stand up and take its place as part of the lanscape amongst surrounding redrock formations. But it still felt so sad to me.

We we were raised on artesian well water that flows naturally from the ground and through the pipes of our house. Our water pressure has always been unusually low because we've never used a pump. I'm convinced it's the most delicious water in the world and I miss the taste when I'm away.

"Where does your water come from Marie?", I asked her during our weekend stay.

"Municipal sources, I guess."

(dis)honesty.

2010-02-10T12:49:00.000-08:00

I caught someone at school cheating. It was an issue of plagiarism. I wished so much I hadn't seen the unquestionable evidence and sought to pass the burden of dealing with the situation upon someone of appropriate authority. I wanted to remove that weight from my load and move on.

"I think I have something I have to tell you...I know that someone cheated. But I don't want to relay it taddle-tale-style. I don't even really want to tell you."

"Do you think this person would benefit from you telling me?"

"I'm not sure. I think things like this have a way of catching up with people on their own."

"If you want to tell me, you can. But you don't have to unless you think it's best."

"Oh man, I was so looking forward to getting rid of this conundrum..."

So I didn't tell and I actually don't think I will. Life is an endless pool of moral options left for us to tread alone.

I've been playing a ton of Scrabble lately. Other graphic design kids started busting me in front of the teacher when I've been playing in class and just yesterday I was nick-named "SQ" for "Scrabble Queen" by a kid in the design program. I love to win in Scrabble simply because I usually can. Despite what any pacifist claims, it feels pretty good to squash competitors every once in a while.

It's really easy to cheat in Scrabble. Just google the words "scrabble cheat" and the top site sends you to a page where you can enter any combination of letters (including blank tiles) and it will reveal all possible word combinations available according to any Scrabble dictionary. I used it a lot until my mom finally called me out.

"Why would you play at all if you have to use that thing?"

She had a point. From that moment on, I stopped. But I've been really tempted to use it every once in a while.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't lost more lately, but admittedly, I feel better when I win now too.

A few days ago I encountered another situation that I had to come clean about. It was real, life-changing stuff where others' emotions were at stake. It felt awful. As I forced the individual words of truth from my throat, my heart sat heavy and strained in my chest. But I'm still glad I did it.

Do cheaters prosper? Without doubt. But I can never live with my own lies for too long.

love this.

2010-01-30T11:04:00.000-08:00

I think there are all of these people who grew up loving Sesame Street and sometimes have to find an outlet for it.

Mr. Oizo - Flat Beat from Spoon on Vimeo.

making waves.

2010-01-29T12:03:00.000-08:00

My ad campaign for the Nissan Cube. I actually enjoyed working on it.

Environmental ads:

design.

2010-01-26T07:50:00.000-08:00

There are so many reasons why I haven't been blogging much lately. Blogs are not for making announcements. Much is happening in my little Provo life and it will have to seep into the whole of my personage in order to affect the way I write here.

But still, one of the biggest contributing is factors is that I love design. Unlike last semester, my head is now totally in the game. Nothing I'm doing feels like homework because I wouldn't choose to be doing anything else.

I was walking into the HFAC last week when a guy tried to hand me a neon green flier advertising his comedy sports act. He extended his arm toward me with some force, entirely certain that I'd take it out of his hand.
"Sorry...I just..."
There wasn't really time to explain and I'm sure he didn't care. He was busy recruiting an audience.

What I would've said is that I don't like comedy sports and never have. And I am so occupied with obligations that I'm not sure I could attend even if my best friend were performing in it.

As I thought more about the interaction, I started to feel great gratitude that if I am someday a successful designer, I would never have to hand out fliers in order to get peoples' attention. My ideas would be communicated in a manner where nobody would gather to witness my work; I'd never have to point it out at all; it would be enjoyed quietly. Or maybe it wouldn't be noticed all because of its innate appeal in the ease of its use/the function of its form.

Design feels more service oriented than painting or theater or film or music because it goes beyond entertainment to make mundane things beautiful and easier to use. You always consider your audience first. I love it so much.

exorbitance purge.

2010-01-25T10:32:00.000-08:00

This quote feels like one of the most important themes of my life right now. C.S. Lews, Mere Christianity p. 108:

"What we call 'being in love' is a glorious state, and, in several ways, good for us. It helps to make us generous and courageous, it opens our eyes not only to the beauty of the beloved but to all beauty, and it subordinates (especially at first) our merely animal sexuality; in that sense, love is the great conqueror of lust. No one in his senses would deny that being in love is far better than either common sensuality or cold self-centredness. But, as I said before, 'the most dangerous thing you can do is to take any one impulse of our own nature and set it up as the thing you ought to follow at all costs'. Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing. There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is still a feeling. Now no feeling can be relied on to last in its full intensity, or even to last at all. Knowledge can last, principles can last, habits can last; but feelings come and go. And in fact, whatever people say, the state called 'being in love' usually does not last. If the old fairy-tale ending 'They lived happily ever after' is taken to mean 'They felt for the next fifty years exactly as they felt the day before they were married,' then it says what probably never was nor ever would be true, and would be highly undesirable if it were. Who could bear to live in that excitement for even five years? What would become of your work, your appetite, your sleep, your friendships? But, of course, ceasing to be 'in love' need not mean ceasing to love. Love in this second sense-love as distinct from 'being in love'-is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit; reinforced by (in Christian marriages) the grace which both partners ask, and receive, from God. They can have this love for each other even at those moments when they do not like each other; as you love yourself even when you do not like yourself. They can retain this love even when each would easily, if they allowed themselves, be 'in love' with someone else. 'Being in love' first moved them to promise fidelity: this quieter love enables them to keep the promise. It is on this love that the engine of marriage is run: being in love was the explosion that started it."

I think the "quieter love" that C.S. Lewis speaks of that is "maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit" is the type of love I receive from my very best of friends and family members. I've lived most of my life out of balance, making raw emotion and impulse the fuel for many desired destinations; especially within my romantic relationships. My new conclusion: Emotion means little unless it is backed up by sincere and consistent action.

the love of a hacker.

2010-01-21T19:54:00.000-08:00

My email account was hacked at around 2:30a.m. on Tuesday morning by someone with the English skills of a Chinese High School student. It was sent to everyone I've ever emailed, including bosses, art galleries I had to contact when I was working as a TA, and lengthy lists of BYU kids from my classes. It read:

hi
How is everything going?
I want to share something with you ： http://www.kcnshop.com/
On this website ,you can find many new and origianl electronic
products .Because of New Year 2010, they are holding sales promotion
activity, all the product are sold at a discount.
And i have bought some products from this web, low cost and good
quality ,and the delivery is on time .
If you need some, visit this website . Hurry up,because the promotion
activity only keeps 1 month .
Hope everything goes well.
Greetings!

It ilicited many interesting responses that actually made me feel really loved, including:

hey did you send me this or did somebody hack themselves into your account? hope you are well...: )

and:

virus? sorry girl.

via chat:

are you awake for rlz? Oh, no just a chinese high school student hacked into your account.

from the mother of an old friend:

I know you didn't send this strange email about some camera shop...Someone with more computer knowledge than me can tell you what is going on. Otherwise, I hope things are going well for you. Maybe I'll see you around Provo or on campus, if you're still there.

From a beloved co-worker:

quick heads up. got a mass e-mail from you around 2:30 am for kcnshop.com. as it's 2:30, and i'm very tired, i didn't think much of it until after stopping by the site and then thinking to myself... "wait... does this really seem reasonable?"

anyway, if you did send the e-mails, no worries. if not, you may want to check your gmail account as it may have been hacked.

hope all is well, friend. we should do lunch sometime.

your friend,
mos def.

from one of my design professors:

this was in my email. are you in a new line of work?

my response: Ha! Yes, someone hacked my email last night. I changed my password this morning and I think that should take care it. Thanks.

His reply: you might want to reconsider. it could be quite lucrative.

A lot of people who only scanned it thought that I actually wrote it. One girl in my design classes thought I was linking her to some really sweet design site. Ha! It still makes me laugh.

It's funny how someone in a foreign country sent out a dishonest reminder to the world that I exist and that many people so lovingly responded.

So here's a small thanks to the hacker, wherever they are; but with hopes they don't try to steal my identity or money.

over easy.

2010-01-14T12:24:00.000-08:00

Mike Alger recently explained something important to me over a plate of eggs.

"I don't like runny yolks because I don't like my food to mix-- didn't I recently have a big conversation with you about this? I think the way people approach food mimics their work style. I like to eat one thing on my plate until its gone and then move onto the next item. I'm the same with work. I finish one thing before I move on to the next."

"Bo-ring. I love runny yolks. I love the way it tastes when mixed with jam. I love the way it tastes when mixed with syrup."

The next morning I'm paddling in a pool with my beginning swimming class. I'm on yard 40 of the total 50 that my super-cute, freckly, brunette coach commanded us to swim. Everyone else is finished and waiting near the side; all eyes on me.

"Don't even worry, everyone wants a little break", I'm told when I reach the rest of them at last.

I am one of three girls in my swim class this semester. The rest are men. They are not freshman. They are not skinny. Some are soccer players; some are in the ROTC. The other girls offer no comfort whatsoever. One of them runs 5 miles every morning, the other swims laps daily at the gym. They are both lean and muscly and blonde.

After swimming is Spanish. My teacher is blonde, but rotund. Her Spanish is beautiful and spoken with great ease. Everyday feels like a strain to remember the vocabulary I learned from previous semesters. Sometimes I get lost listening to the sound of her voice as the meaning glides over my head.

Next: Motion graphics. After Effects. Technology and computers. I purposefully sit at the iMac closest to the teacher to watch his every mouse click so I don't get lost.

I'm trying to choose comfortable projects in my design classes this semester to balance things out a bit. I am relabeling some ginger beer and choosing a more playful magazine to redesign.

I eat eggs most at nights in Provo since I moved out. They are tasty and cheap. I even learned how to make a cheap muffin recipe to have something to soak up the yolk with.

always go to the funeral.

2010-01-08T16:13:00.000-08:00

There is one "This I Believe" essay that had moved me to action more than any other:

Here it is.

It has inspired me to attend all kinds of events that I would normally avoid: baby and bridal showers, birthday parties, etc.

I had the opportunity to attend a funeral today. My sister-in-law's father died abruptly of a heart attack on New Year's Eve. Although I did not know him well, I was eager to indicate any support I could offer through my attendance at such a formal gathering.

There is, of course, another virtue in attending funerals that stood strongly in my mind today. They are a great equalizing force that reminds us of our inevitable fate to continue to experience encounters with death as time moves forward. This is humbling and connects me to all humankind. It makes me want to give more hugs, to speak more loving words, to offer more appreciation and forgiveness, to allow more people within the inner nucleus walls of my life. It makes me happy to refer to everyone as "Brother" or "Sister" at church.

When I was married the first time, we had a very small and quiet celebration. Instead of a reception, we held a luncheon at a restaurant. Only those included in the wedding party were invited to attend.

At my next wedding, (when and if this ever happens) I want to invite everyone. Classmates, friends of friends, old primary teachers, my sister-in-law's in-laws; everyone. I no longer see such life-changing occasions as being about individuals. We are all members of a human network, linked by human experience, blood, births, love, marriage, tears, and death.

i want a portfolio so much more deperately than i want a boyfriend.

2010-01-07T14:16:00.000-08:00

back from the dead.

2010-01-03T14:55:00.000-08:00

Provo haunts me. Not so much BYU campus; Adam and I only went there together a few times and I always felt like a foreigner with him there anyway. It's the grocery stores, the shops, the boutiques, the restaurants; the streets where we longboarded. They feel spooky, like they should be covered with decay, like there should barbed-wire fences propped up around the spots where my most painful memories occurred. Sometimes I recognize my own irrational amazement that everything looks exactly the same here.

I moved back on Friday. Instead of buying a new car after my head-on collision, I've decided to walk to BYU campus everyday from a remote location.

I am moving 15 miles away from my mother's delicious vegetarian cuisine (that she so lovingly prepares just for me.) I am moving 15 miles away from the snowy fields that greet me on my way home. I am moving 15 miles away from the chickens that sleep in the lilac bush outside my window. I am moving 15 miles away from the only place I knew to go when I had nothing.

It will be okay. I will make new memories here to replace the old ones.

suspicious.

2009-12-31T12:42:00.000-08:00

My sister Miriam wrote this. It is so good, I figured I didn't really have to write my own version. And it expresses my experience with AVATAR quite well:

The whole family went to Avatar today except Marie, Mike and the little children. None of us were excited about the plot synopsis, but it was AVATAR, so we had to go. Laura and I were the ones who waited for everyone with the tickets. This gave us time to eat a baked potato and look around.
Laura: "Ohhhh. They used papyrus font for the Avatar poster. This isn't going to be good."
Me: "Ya?"
Laura: "It just looks bad. They spend millions of dollars on a film and then get graphic designers who use PAPYRUS. No. What were they thinking?"
Me: (Laughing) "It's like public health."
Laura: " Huh?"
Me: "After learning about public health, you question every statistic the media throws at you. I mean like did they stratify for age, socioeconomic status, and activity level? That kind of stuff. You become suspicious of everything when you know something about public health and here you are suspicious of everything because of the typefaces they use."
Laura: (laughing) "I am suspicious of Avatar."

So we went in, a little late by the time all of the tickets were distributed and we waded through upset people to our pre-assigned seats. About a half hour in, I felt something slide off of my lap and looked down. The sleeve of my coat had shifted and it's a heavy lambskin coat so I thought I might be able to feel a sleeve shifting because it is a bulky coat. I briefly considered that my purse may have slipped off of my lap but I just decided to search around after the movie.

It ended. It was long. At one point, I had looked at Laura and said
"I have to pee so bad."
"Me too. We only have 45 minutes left. "
"Ackkk"
We made it. It had cost the two of us ~$20 to stare at a movie screen for 3 hours and the special effects were worth it. However, Laura's suspicions about the story, characters, and romance were validated. Most importantly, we got to go to the bathroom.
I looked around for my purse. I couldn't find it. I started searching under the seats around me. The girl sitting on my left wanted to get past and I wasn't letting her. I wanted to see if my purse had somehow ended up in her bag. I finally told her I was looking for my purse to see how she responded and she said very sweetly.
"Oh. Well let me get out of your way."

I have no idea what to do when you think someone has stolen your purse, but you are in no way sure. I mean I couldn't just start frisking people or going through their bags. I considered what was in my purse. A credit card, a debit card, a drivers license, temple recommend, Costco membership, various grocery store discount cards and three pieces of peppermint Trident. I had just payed my dad back with my last $20, left my phone, camera and ipod at home and I had even commented earlier that my purse was looking worn out. I let her go past, looked a bit more for my purse, went to the lost and found, and then called and put a hold on my credit card and cancelled my debit card. I panicked later when I realized I didn't know where my keys were, but they were in my backpack after all.

When I get back to Merced, I will get to spend about 3 hours at the DMV, staring at pictures of Arnold Schwarzenegger and it will cost me ~ $20 for a new drivers license.

found my place.

2009-12-26T12:25:00.000-08:00

My dad is a designer. Not of letters, shapes, or colors, but of electrical currents, circuit boards, switches, and wires. My parents' house is presently equipped to be powered by a windmill. The walls are doubly insulated for better temperature control and the windows were purposefully kept small for the same purpose. It's been heated by a coal-burning furnace for the last 25 years because of the unbeatable cost/heat ratio. If you haven't seen my parents' house before, it looks utilitarian in essence, like a really big white storage shed.

I once told him over some physics homework, "Dad, I think you are more fluent in math than in English." He smiled and seemed to relish this remark. I think I've heard him retell it a few times. I really meant it. I think he interprets the world through numbers. Numerical efficiency comes first. Things are measured in concrete terms and meant for analysis. Factors earning top consideration are only measurable, physical elements: inertia, mass, density, time, speed, etc. He complains when electronic devices were not so carefully designed with these things in mind.

Thinking of my dad in this way makes me feel linked to him, although everything I design considers almost no measurable values. I try to consider tone, readability, and composition first. I see the world through this lens and complain when I come across visual information that was not so carefully designed with these things in mind.

i am not a robot.

2009-12-25T10:55:00.000-08:00

Luke posted this on his blog in August and it's never left my brain.

Marina & The Diamonds, "I Am Not A Robot" from Neon Gold Records on Vimeo.

love struck.

2009-12-24T23:35:00.001-08:00

I don't even care if I look like an anime nerd for posting this: Howl's Moving Castle is one of the most romantic movies I've ever seen. I could write a ten page essay in support of this argument and carry on lengthy conversations, but I'll spare everyone and simply enjoy this hopeful spark it has left in my heart...

2009-12-24T08:02:00.000-08:00

home for holidays.

2009-12-22T22:53:00.000-08:00

Isn't this a little scary?I find myself feeling just a little creeped out every time those green eyes twinkle at me as I'm using the bathroom at my parents' home this Christmas season.

Also, this quote gets me so excited that I'm studying graphic design. I'd love to claim someday that I am, in fact, a real typographer:

"In a world rife with unsolicited messages, typography must often draw attention to itself before it will be read. Yet in order to be read, it must relinquish the attention it has drawn. Typography with anything to say therefore aspires to a kind of statuesque transparency. Its other traditional goal is durability: not immunity to change, but a clear superiority to fashion. Typography at its best is a visual form of language linking timelessness and time."

- The Elements of Typographic Style by Robert Bringhurst

Thanks to Luke for this book recommendation. (I found an older edition in the BYU library.)

thaw.

2009-12-21T10:23:00.000-08:00

A boy in the graphic design program once told me I was a bit cold.
"Cold?! I think people would describe me as anything but that."
I pushed the topic a bit in an attempt to better understand, but he seemed uncomfortable elaborating.

During a particularly painful break-up this year I remember saying something ridiculous along the lines of, "I will recover quickly from this. I always do. This doesn't compare to what I've experienced in the past."

After I divorced, I submerged myself in school. I took 9 credits during spring term and none of them involved art. It was physical science, history, and English. I got a 3.7 and it almost killed me. During that time I never cried about my broken marriage. After a certain point I never even thought about it.

I think the rate of this pattern has only increased. Not only has my school schedule become more difficult each and every subsequent semester, but I have been dating in succession for almost exactly an entire year.

I've never even stopped long enough to feel the painful dissolve of the last relationship or what it meant to me in my life. I've attempted to be logical and rational and never let emotional things affect my work ethic.

I am not necessarily vowing to take a break from dating. (I once told my therapist that I should do this and he combated the remark with: "If you wanted to get better at baseball would you stop practicing?")
But already, this slight downtime from school and relationships has allowed me a better sense of my losses. I'll let it happen. I might even cry for once.

gasp.

2009-12-19T17:19:00.000-08:00

Last week a man who was late bringing sacrament bread to church hit my car head-on. I didn't even watch him cross over into my lane, he was already driving in it. Fortunately we were both moving slowly because the roads were thick with snow, but it's still likely that my car was totaled.
I was upset that it happened right before finals week.

The previous Friday I experienced my semester-end review where you meet with all of the graphic design faculty in one room. I slapped my dog-eared stack of process work down on the table. One professor grabbed it and shuffled through it a bit as another stood over his shoulder.
"Laura, have you had a lot of personal stuff going on this semester?"
I lied without thought. "No, not really."
"Where is all your work? Is this it?"
My stomach tightens like it's just been punched.
"Yeah. This is it. But I feel like I've been working really hard."
"She's here all the time," another professor pipes in.
"Maybe you just have a hard time making decisions."
"Yes, that could be the case," says another.

I stayed at school that night scanning new images and checking type options until a custodian kicked me out of the building. "I will prove them wrong, I will prove them wrong," was the song I kept singing in my head over and over again.

The wreck struck me immediately as more of an inconvenience than a near-death experience or the loss of a possession. But I was instantly grateful to be alive once I stepped outside in the snow and surveyed the damage. It was bad. I couldn't believe it was actually my car once it was hoisted on the back of the tow truck.

I spent half of the following morning negotiating with the insurance company and making arrangements for a rental car.

After that, I remember only the dizzying vortex of finals week. I spent days in front of my laptop screen until Thursday afternoon when I had a therapy appointment on campus. We got on to the topic of why I am choosing to work so hard at school and where my real motivation lies. Is it really to support my future children if my husband dies? No. Is it really because I want to have a steady career upon graduation? No.

In considering my real motivation I have made some valuable conclusions:

1. I have a tendency to get caught up in things. I love to lose myself in new experiences and possess the capacity to appreciate almost anything if I only lend myself to it. I like to give my full effort to whatever I'm presently engaged in.

I think this is the real reason I married Adam in the first place. I allowed myself to get caught up in his world and he liked it and then trapped me there.
I think this is the reason it's important for me to try to stay well-rounded and pursue any new opportunities that present themselves. It insures that I won't allow myself to get trapped. It also tells me that I must marry someone who lacks any capacity to be controlling.

2. I don't think this is necessarily a bad characteristic (which is good, because it feels like an integral part of my personality.) In considering my tendency to get caught up with things, my mind crossed over the work ethic of my brother, Tom. Tom is someone who's pursued many interests and hobbies with great effort and stamina. He is not a dabbler. Tom is an expert lock picker, car mechanic, scrabble master, father, husband, medical doctor, doctor of public health, outdoorsmen, priesthood holder, clock-maker/repairman, real-estate investor, and a host of other titles in varying categories.

He certainly gets caught up in things, but the trick of the matter is that he typically gets caught up with the right things. When he was young, he fell in love with the same passion that I did, but he married wisely; to someone smart and sweet and responsible. (You're great, Keriann.)

Whenever I go for days without sleep because I'm working on a project, I think of Tom. It's always likely that he's maintaining a similar schedule.

Conclusion: I am grateful to presently pursue graphic design with a great deal of passion and freedom and will continue to do so. I am also excited for the other things I will so zealously pursue in the future.

no time to post anything but movies during finals week, but this one is for sure worth it.

2009-12-12T17:16:00.001-08:00

Thanks to annie for showing this to me while I was at school.
p.s. if anyone ever wants to eat tim-tams with warm milk, just call me. I'm always down...after Friday, that is.

go here and watch the video.

2009-12-10T15:32:00.000-08:00

It's true that I'm really tired after two all-nighters, but when Adrian (my graphic design professor) showed us this movie (partially in order to demonstrate the power of type) I almost teared up. I think maybe I would've even if I weren't so tired.

live.

2009-12-09T11:12:00.001-08:00

Click this:

some birthdays.

2009-12-07T02:25:00.000-08:00

I haven't uploaded many photos lately. When I did this morning, there were only photos from Whitney's birthday in November and some that Mike Alger took at my birthday party on Saturday:

shout outs.

2009-12-05T08:34:00.000-08:00

Maybe there's something I've forgotten to clarify in my 1.5 years of regular blogging:

I became very isolated and lonely when I was married. As much as I naturally love to talk, most of my thoughts never reached my lips because my life had become something I had to hide from everyone.

The happiest and most glorious moment of my life was when I was driving away from my marriage. I humored so many thoughts of reconnecting with others. I imagined myself being Whitney's roommate. I imagined sitting for hours speaking with my mother. It felt like I was flying.

I called this blog socialexplosion because I'd been pent up and held back for so long that the inertia of my desire to socialize felt like a breaking dam or a bomb.

There are a few people in particular who withstood the power of my social force with love, patience, and strength:

The first is my mother. She received me with open arms and fulfilled all of the dreams I carried of reconnecting with her. I am late to school most mornings but it is not because I am dawdling. I am talking with her. It's a routine I just can't give up. I tell her all about my life as she's preparing my lunch and we always get a bit carried away. There's a lot of love in the mornings at our house.

The second is Whitney. Whitney guided me back into the world of singles with grace and confidence. I needed her and she knew it. I've never had a happier summer than the one I spent with Whitney.

The third is Mike Alger. I met Mike at midnight at an ihop for a Kohler's co-worker gathering that Whitney took me to. He said he was interested in film so I whipped out my foreign film knowledge. Mike doesn't even watch foreign films. But he listened and listened and somehow we exchanged numbers. He's been listening graciously ever since.

The last and certainly not least are my siblings. Although most of them don't live around here, their gestures of forgiveness and love have been some of the most tender. There's been Spanish help at midnight, long letters illustrated with cartoons, nail-painting, long phone calls, and g-chatting from the middle-east in a war zone about my latest dating news. My siblings fortify and lift me.

nobody's girl but my mother's.

2009-12-03T02:09:00.000-08:00

made a new friend.

2009-11-30T18:18:00.001-08:00

We used to be at odds. I'm pretty stoked. She let me pet her neck without nipping.

2009-11-28T18:23:00.000-08:00

my family all stood around and laughed at this.

2009-11-25T14:09:00.000-08:00

via Miriam.

unrequited.

2009-11-23T22:31:00.000-08:00

(illustration by Lindsay Petrick)
Tonight a dear friend confessed to me her ongoing unrequited love.

"It's so beautiful, even though it's unreciprocated," was my reply.
"But I want it so much to be reciprocated."
"Of course you do; that's what makes it so beautiful."

Sometimes I get so sick of myself. I feel like a ball of unrequited emotions and yearnings. I hope for feelings of indifference more than for the actual fulfillment of my unrequitement. It's a cynical approach to passion.

Tonight stood out as a reminder to the power and purity of vulnerability, longing; even desperation. I think a lack of indifference is something that should actually be celebrated, praised, treasured, and revered.

loved.

2009-11-20T12:41:00.001-08:00

Most of you now that my parents are red-blooded conservatives. They are members of the NRA, receive periodic Phylis Schlafly reports, and watch Glenn Beck more than any other tivo-ed program. Republican conventions stand out as a holiday in the logged memory of my childhood.

Although I wouldn't describe myself as liberal, I do claim the title of "moderate". I don't want to launch into the whole of my political theory, but let's just say that these differences between me and my parents have sometimes placed a strain on our relationship. I allowed them to; I used to let it stew and smolder; but then reached a point where politics seemed like the funniest, most ridiculous wedge to drive between myself and any loved one.

For the last year and a half, I've been receiving fowarded political emails from my dad. I read them sometimes. They have subjects like:

FW: Chuck Norris: Dirty Secret No. 2 in Obamacare
FW: Rabbi: Obama Breeds Hate Against Jews
FW: How much is a trillion dollars? TAKE ACTION!
FW: Will Obama's Socialism Enslave Blacks?
FW: Buchanan: In Earmarks Lies Salvation?
Fwd: FW: NBC was suprised?

I think he sends them to everyone on his email list, but I also think especially in my case, he likes to subtly interject these things he sees as important, meaningful, and good. He wants to keep me on the right path, not excluding politics, and feels eager to step up to that duty.

Truthfully, I've found them a little annoying in the past. I'd be sitting in class, my blackberry would buzz, and it'd be another fowarded political message from my dad. But this last little while during his heart recovery, I've missed them dearly.

My heart leaped in my chest just a bit when I received this today:

FW: Buchanan: Dumbo University

I imagined my dad sitting behind his desk at work; breathing, emailing, setting me straight.
I cannot explain my gratitude.

stars.

2009-11-18T01:29:00.000-08:00

The stars were so bright overhead when I pulled into the driveway at 2:28a.m. that I couldn't help but blog about it at 2:30a.m. So lovely.

thought of something good to blog.

2009-11-17T16:47:00.001-08:00

A lot of people have asked me (in real life) why I've pursued a hiatus. I think if I'm as unreserved now as I tend to regularly be, I'll leave a bunch of negativity out there in cyberspace that should be kept in more private records. That said, I thought of something today that I felt excited to share (taken from a page in my sketchbook):

The signal that marked my "growing up" was a shift indoors. From the time I could run I became a dirty ragamuffin. I ate milkweed and clover, hopped ditches, tore my pants on fences, chased cows, stroked horses' noses, formed mud pies, removed leeches from my ankles, climbed trees, created mazes from stacks of hay bails, tromped through corn fields, caught snakes, and ran so hard during games of hide & seek that I could taste the burn of adrenaline in my throat. It was the discovery of talking; connecting with people indoors that sucked me away from that seemingly surrealistic world.

I've felt guilty for years. When I walk through that setting of so many childhood games and experiences; in the place that really reared me, it feels like visiting a neglected family member. Visiting with those who are strangers to it feels like an introduction more than a stroll; like I'm bearing something personal. I judge those strangers by how they react to it; similar to the way I would upon introducing someone to my mother.

hiatus.

2009-11-15T18:35:00.000-08:00

I think maybe I should be writing more in my journal than right here for now. I'm gonna try it out. But I think I'll be back soon. I have little self-discipline these days.

man hater.

2009-11-11T15:21:00.000-08:00

Okay. I have an idea: How about all the girls at BYU between 90-120lbs. who are virgins, not on academic probation, and have temple recommends, line up in one-piece bathing suits (because they are spiritual) in front of all single Mormon suitors? They can bear their testimonies, conduct conversations using all and any intellectual jargon they know, speak using any foreign language skills they might posses, and have a list of all of their talents, hobbies and any bands they like pinned to their backs.

Yes, today I am bitter and I don't think I can ignore it.

I feel like men (and probably not just Mormon ones) sum their dating prospects up using lists of virtues and drawbacks. It's not that I don't think girls do this or that I can't admit to never having done this myself, but it's awful when you come to realize that ALL you were to someone was that list and that it didn't quite add up.

At BYU it may be worse because there are so many girls to choose from. The grass could potentially always be greener or hotter or more spiritual or smarter.

I was sitting in class last night next to someone who's wife recently gave birth to a baby boy. He's struggled a bit to keep up and looks tired often, but I envied him. I felt reduced to the little kid's table indefinitely; like I'm forced to go back to when I was 16 years old and relive all the ways I've failed in romantic relationships until I get it right at last. I am dealing with drama and break-ups. He is building a little family. I can't help but feel a sting of failure when I see it this way.

If you're someone I've dated and you're reading this; don't take it too personally. This is a frustration that's mounted seemingly by the collection of my dating experience as a whole. There's a chance you may have added to this feeling, but you're not to blame entirely.

no trying allowed.

2009-11-10T08:04:00.000-08:00

I've been learning how to dive in my swim class. There are only 2 other girls brave enough to pursue it. (I think everyone else is scared of how deep the water is the diving pool.)

We first learned off the edge of the pool in a crouched position, then standing, and now off the diving board. The rules are the same in each scenario: Aim straight to the bottom of the pool. Leave your feet on the edge as long as possible and point them as they follow the rest of your body on the way down.

When I internalized these rules, I dove the first real dive of my life. I felt myself enter the water correctly and plummeted gracefully down so far that I almost touched the bottom. My small diving group cheered when I arose eager for air at the surface.

It sparked in my mind some Star Wars wisdom:

"Do, or do not. There is no 'try.'" by Jedi Master Yoda

It's funny to quote, but totally true. In diving, you do it or don't. Anything else results in a belly-flop. That last little hesitation invoked by fear or self-consciousness causes you to fail out-right.

In general, my heart and brain have been weighed down by a lot of fears recently. I've been scared that all of my classwork this semester will yield little that I'm proud of. I've been scared of rejection in relationships. I've been scared of financial catastrophe. I've been scared that I'm not the woman I should be.

I've decided to cast these fears off. I am going to put a sincere effort into every aspect of my life that feels worth it; no excuses. I recognize that I might fail; that my best effort in some situations may only result in a confident, feet-first jump off the edge resulting in little grace or beauty. I feel certain to get a lot of water up my nose in the process; but I am absolutely refusing to belly flop.

little ray of light.

2009-11-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

I watched the golden light of the sunset change through the leaves outside my classroom window last night. I felt a strong ache behind my left eye and made a concerted effort to hold back tears as I pretended to listen to the lecture. I'd judged my emotional opacity as impeccable until Kenji turned and asked me what was wrong. I relented and told him I couldn't say because then I'd start to cry and I just couldn't allow it.
But as I watched the light, I experienced a small epiphany. I realized that I would one day yearn to be back in that classroom with all of those people the way I sometimes yearn to see that same golden light bleed into the green carpet of my old elementary school. I realized that I may nostalgically look back upon the heartache of boy drama and the chaos of the graphic design program the way I nostalgically reflect on the way kids used to make fun of me on the playground.
All of these difficult things feel like they connect me to the human experience at large. They seem necessary and humbling.

so grateful to have youtube access at byu.

2009-11-05T08:25:00.000-08:00

During the two overnighters I pulled at school to work on my pokémon redesign project, this sustained me.It will never cease to be hilarious.

chicken fight.

2009-11-04T07:39:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning at 2:34am to a literal chicken fight. There is a lilac bush outside my window that my cousin's range chickens love to perch in. Maybe there wasn't enough room for all of them to fit comfortably in the wee dark hours.

Although it jolted me to alertness, it didn't strike me as odd at all until I started to think about it on my morning commute. It blended too well with how chaotic and unusual the rest of my life has become. I wish I could tell more about it, that I could offer some sort of explanation, but it's just too complex, too involved, and too personal; even for me.

spanish speakers only.

2009-10-31T14:31:00.000-07:00

My Spanish teacher is a nerd; a real zoobie. Clean-cut with boyish good looks; polite, caring, enthusiastic, but a stickler about assigning things that feel impossibly difficult and making sure that he marks you absent if you're more than 10 minutes late. (We have class 5 days a week and you automatically fail if you're absent 5 times.)

Earlier in the week, he was teaching us the about the "a personal" and writes this on the board:

¿Tu amigo lleva _________ a la fiesta?
Our options being "a mi hermana" or "mi hermana."
(translation: Your friend is bringing my sister to the party?)

To help us decide whether or not to use the "a," my teacher stiffly exclaims,"Is she likely to receive some action if she is being taken to the party?"

The class erupts. My teacher turns bright red. El fin.

exploder.

2009-10-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

I blame it in part on the close relationship I had with my brother, Carl, when I was growing up. We were inseparable, close, connected, bonded. We had all the same friends for the first 17 years of my life. I felt that life was meant to be experienced with someone. I grew accustomed to the comfortability of recapping daily details and speaking aloud whatever happened to be on my mind. I like to think of this sort of connection between siblings as rare. I think it really might be. Carl was my very first and very dearest friend.

I guess all of this, this sort of openness and sharing in lives, still equals love to me. I guess I think that's fine, except for I can't quite seem to reconcile the fact that for most people, I talk too much. I keep hoping that somehow I'll change. I keep wishing for some paradigm shift to wash over me that will leave me contentedly and quietly within my own head. But other times, I feel it's an innate desire, an integral component of who I am and that I may just have to search out more people who are okay and even welcoming of it.

These days, when Carl visits with his wife and son, I get excited. I speak voraciously and he welcomes it and accepts it and enthusiastically responds. It feels wonderful.

2009-10-27T15:01:00.000-07:00

via luke.

love.

2009-10-27T07:44:00.000-07:00

(illustration by Marcos Chin)

There is a type of love that leaves me singing first thing when I wake up in the morning and makes me think that smiling at every stranger is the only natural thing to do. It helps me feel a little more free from money and time restrictions, but I could stay awake for days on the energy it supplies if I needed to anyhow.
I often wonder what could be done for the person who is the object of my affections. I feel eager to help them with anything. I wonder if they are tired, sick, hungry, and desire to do my best to relieve any of these discomforts regardless of the obstacle. It drives me to feel bursts of sympathy towards many and kindly toward the world at large.
I laugh often. 12:02am ends up really being 1:42am. Kissing is about communicating tender affections rather than taking for oneself. Even grocery store errands become memorable. It is a love so compelling that I hardly notice I'm not listening to music/npr during my morning commute as I'm thinking of how to describe it on my blog.

I've only ever experienced this during brief periods of my life, but it absolutely does exist.

I'd learned recently to dismiss these sort of emotions as immature and false. Post-divorce, dating became largely about some sort of resumé line-up. More like: "He should have A,B, and C and then it will all work out fine." I was wrong. I believe there is something very natural and powerful about these gut-levels of love. I've learned that I can't do without them in any relationship worth pursuing.

cool.

2009-10-26T12:25:00.000-07:00

Reflections at the start of the rainy season.

2009-10-25T17:41:00.000-07:00

More from my dear brother deployed in the Middle East:Yesterday the rainy season here started. When I woke up, the sky was overcast. It is always a little overcast, with a layer of fine dust suspended in the air. This time, however, I knew the cover was made of real clouds because it wasn’t so bright out. It didn’t even hurt my eyes when I walked outside without sunglasses.

The groud, which is usually a single shade of pale tan, was mottled all over with areas of deep brown. It was as if the clouds above, even before rain, were drawing up water from the earth that I didn’t even know was there. Water that has survived for months beneath the surface, somehow escaping evaporation in spite of the most compelling sunlight thinkable. And, also, there was a breeze. It was a real breeze too. Almost cool. It was a stark change from the hot wind that I have felt, for months, like a hairdryer in my face. All of these changes combined on the world overnight, so I knew when I woke up that the rainy season had arrived.

I was very busy with patients all day. There was also a change in them. I didn’t see any heat exhaustion or athlete’s foot or rolled ankles like I am used to. Some kind of change had started to draw hidden things out of people too. I spent two hours with a sailor I thought I knew. For two hours she told me the details of a worse childhood than I could have imagined. Memories that she had willfully suppressed for years, that would not be kept down any longer. It was the first time she had spoken some of it, and it was difficult for her to say through the tears and choking sobs. I heard about abuse, rejection, loss, and emptiness that repeated themselves for decades. In spite of the pain, I could sense that purging this filth brought a little relief to the emotional nausea she has suffered for years. I hadn’t known if I could help. I don’t think I am trained to help with these things. But she would not be sent to a chaplain or a psychologist, only me. So I was glad when I sensed in her a little relief.

Soon after she left another sailor came. He, too, was haunted by the past. His memories were especially stinging because the missteps were his own. He has been gone for five months now, and his wife has learned that she really can do it without him, and she intends to. He cried for his loss, he cried for his sense of worthlessness. But mostly, he cried for the agonizing regret. He wishes now that he had cooked dinner for her at least once, or watched the kids for her once while she did her homework, or spoken with her once in the past two years like she was his friend instead of just a wife.

I don’t know if I helped him at all. I hope he helped me know how to avoid such profound regret.

As the sky dimmed a little with evening, an orange light flashed far off in the distance. No more than a flickering glow at first. For an hour, the flicker grew nearer until I could see forks of lightning striking the earth wherever they chose. By the time it was dark, the forks were blue, nearby, and left following thunder. As I fell asleep, I could hear huge drops falling outside, cleaning the sky after months of hard use by the sun and hot wind.

high strung.

2009-10-23T13:01:00.000-07:00

Yep, I've been identifying myself pleasantly in my head for my entire life as easy-going. If you consider being easy-going as meaning that you don't mind sharing toothbrushes with friends and that you're o.k. with sleeping on the ground, then I still am.
But if you consider easy-going to mean someone who enjoys hanging out all day doing things like buying fountain drinks at gas stations, driving around listening to music, or watching movies, then I am the antithesis of easy-going.

I was walking with another graphic design kid, Richard, to the stock room to buy materials for our letter-press class today.

"Geez, ya gotta speed walk everywhere?"

"This is just how I am. Sorry."

Not only do I think I'm not easy-going; I am high-strung. I am the taskmaster of my list and the accomplisher of many a deed. I like to get to the meat of things. I'm a discusser, theorizer, and problem-solver. Touching base with me means cutting past the "what" and analyzing the "why."
There's just way too much to do in life than buy fountain drinks.

even greater joy.

2009-10-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

Whitney just made me this and my joy increased twenty-fold:("Bofta" means good luck in Romanian.) For more awesome Whitney graffiti, click here.

unexpected hope.

2009-10-21T07:49:00.001-07:00

I ran into this online while researching graffiti styles and it instantly cheered me up:See, my life is so sad that the design project I'm most excited about is the one I get to spend the least amount of time on. ¡I am redesigning pokemon cards into an edgy/urban/graffiti style! But I feel like I never get a chance to work on it. Here are my preliminary drawings. Wish me luck.

so, this is love.

2009-10-18T15:32:00.000-07:00

I told my mom in passing a few days ago that I'd run out of deodorant. I told her because I'd been using hers. When I came home last night after a long day, guess what was on my desk:This is really all I need in life. Thanks, mom.

tom sellecks.

2009-10-17T00:13:00.001-07:00

This is for Jared (and my mom...her celebrity crush has always been Tom Selleck.)

i'm a simple girl, really.

2009-10-14T13:48:00.000-07:00

Things I am grateful for:

#1 Space heaters. Post heart-attack, my dad can't shovel coal for our furnace anymore. I am super-grateful for space heaters.

#2 The back float. On even the most discouraging days, the back float is an instantaneous relaxer. Underwater noises calmed me so much during swim class today as I stared at the ceiling.

#3 Unexpected friendships. I am increasingly amazed how close friendships forged in a computer lab can become. I don't know what I'd do without my eclectic little graphic design group. We went on all went on a super hard and scary hike in the snow yesterday and then ate at the Red Igunana with our graphic design class. These are the pics from it that I like best:

please still say i'm not a stereotype.

2009-10-13T07:16:00.000-07:00

I remember once telling a friend that I have before and most definitely still would take my eyelash curler with me backpacking.

"It's so Laura...but also kind of not so Laura."

I completely agree. I'd like to think that the seeming dichotomy of those two items describes something about myself far beyond the mere fact that they happen to be two things I enjoy.

There's a strange part of me that enjoys the fact that my best friend and boyfriend both love Glen Beck when I can hardly bear to stand in the room with a television broadcasting his scathing voice blasting.

I guess, like anyone else, I love feeling like an exception to the rules of cultural dictates.

Last weekend, I accompanied my Glen-Beck-fan-meat-loving-MFA boyfriend on the most art-drenched ventures ever (I still had to wear my jumpsuit and sing D'angelo to myself the whole time):

First, a Friday night show at the CUAC.
Then trailer tacos afterward.
Then a Saturday night collage party at Jenny's.Jared.Jenny.Annie.Me.Last night we made cards at the letterpress lab.
Kenji.
Paris & Miguel.

more about kittens...

2009-10-11T23:14:00.000-07:00

I'd be rejecting an important part of BFA lab history to not post this video.or this one (made by a professor and kids from the program; no CG!):

Typophile Film Festival 5 Opening Titles from Brent Barson on Vimeo.