| (no subject) |
[Feb. 26th, 2008|11:30 am] |
I had a dream the other night. I guess it was on par with other dreams I've had, but the way I woke up was what made it memorable.
I was in some sort of art gallery, and I was peeling potatoes. I wasn't using a peeler, though, because they peeled like oranges. However, the skin was really, really tough to get through, so I was struggling. And I woke up trying to rip through the elastic of my underwear.
... what the hell does that mean??
If I don't get an internship this summer, I'm going to try and stay here, and get paid to paint as 'research.' The only problem with this plan is that I need a PERFECT grant/research proposal by tomorrow. So I probably won't be getting much sleep tonight. Which is fun. And again, about par.
Maybe more later. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jan. 6th, 2008|03:50 pm] |
Last night, rather than work/worry on/about internship applications, I decided to watch an awful movie of which I'm not going to mention the title. Either way, no matter what it was, it got me thinking a little bit about fairy tales, and I've come to a conclusion about them. [Jess, I guess this is mostly for you.] A lot of people wonder why fairy tales never happen to them in real life. And it kind of seems to me that fairy tales only happen after someone has lost everything - and loss of absolutely cosmic proportions [like that in fairy tales] does not happen in the life of each person walking down the street. There's always something left in their lives, even if it doesn't feel like it at the time. So Jess, I suppose just try and figure out that [if you're not in a fairy tale], what's left.
New year's resolutions, I guess, are in order. In no particular order:
1. learn piano
2. lose weight / get healthy
3. read more [already started]
4. write more
5. have someone take a sweet portrait of me that I actually like
I've never been really good at keeping resolutions, so we'll have to see how these go. Maybe keeping my resolutions would be a good resolution...
I finally got the Wii promised to me for my birthday, and it's as enjoyable as I knew it would be. However, I've quickly grown tired of Wii Sports. I need something new, which sucks because the games are more money than I like to spend on many things. But we'll have to see what I wind up with. I'm also kind of sad that I got it after Eric left, because he's not going to have a chance to mess with it until the summer. We're supposed to go down to visit him and check out the Art History program at Delaware next weekend, which should be a hot mess. I just wanted to see the buildings and walk around, but my dad likes making things into a bigger deal that I want them to be. Not a huge deal, though. I may not even wind up applying there, considering I may be headed for Museum Studies rather than Art History.
List of birthday/Christmas books received [in increasing height order]:
The World Accodring to Garp, John Irving
A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving
The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories, H.P. Lovecraft
Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger
The Beautiful and the Damned, J.D. Salinger
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera
The Confessions of Max Tivoli, Andrew Sean Greer
One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Better of McSweeney's
I know, this is all so exciting. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Nov. 25th, 2007|11:22 pm] |
This is one of the most gorgeous things I've come across in a while. If you don't read asofterworld, you really should.
Thanksgiving was rather uneventful, but good. I got lots of books as post-birthday gifts. In the middle of Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, which is excellent so far. Although I didn't get to read much of it on the bus because I was sitting next to a really interesting guy who talked at me for two hours straight. I had to give him water because his throat was dying by the end of it. And even though he was interesting, I hate being talked at, especially while on public transportation. I like to sit and read, or sleep, or just generally think about how much I hate cramped buses. There will be more of these thoughts when I have more time. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Nov. 15th, 2007|09:51 pm] |
In an unprecedented move, my desire to go home has manifested itself in a massive cleaning of my apartment. As in Clorox wiping the entire kitchen, folding [yes, folding!] my clean laundry pile that kittens seem to enjoy, removing all garbage and extraneous papers from my desk, and pushing the little button on the shower cleaner that hangs in the bathroom. UGH. I want to go home and have a bagel and cream cheese, which I haven't had since getting here in August. That's a personal crime.
I suppose this was just meant to be a minor vent. That's all. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Nov. 13th, 2007|04:42 pm] |
I always feel so spoiled when anyone asks me what I want for my birthday. If you think about it, I really didn't have much to do with the day to begin with. All I really had to do is show up. It's rare that you get rewarded for that later in life. People seem to expect more of you. But yeah, I'm all legal now. It's strange to think about the next few birthdays I'll have. I spent a good long time sitting in the bank and thinking about the concept of turning 30. It was very bland. I never want to be a bland person. I hope I'm not bland now.
Class registration was a few days ago. I got into none of the classes I initially wanted, but I'm pretty happy with what I wound up in. I'm in Early Medieval Languages of Britain and Ireland, Fiction, Painting II, and Art and Theory since 1945. I'm still trying to get into a Contemporary Fiction class in place of regular Fiction, and possibly a Literary Journalism class. Yay for English and Art/Art History classes! Liberal Arts FTW!
Today was a good day. I got a bunch of packages in the mail, including Ratatouille [which, if you haven't seen, your life is incomplete], and my birthday gifts from my roommate - three t-shirts from Threadless. Life is pretty exciting.
So back to the recurring theme... painting. Self-portrait is done, and very large, and placed in an embarrassing spot in the building where I spend 90% of my life - two classes, and work either down the hall, or immediately downstairs from it. And oddly enough, it looks a lot like me, I think [I just don't usually look as scary as this]. The good things is that it needs to be taken down soon, to make room for senior projects. But yeah, here it is.
  And I started a new one today. We have to do an abstraction of a sound, so I decided to do the French language in general as really gestural, textured yellow-gold [yellow ochre] bubbles on a maroon/brown background. My professor really wants me to use colors I'm not comfortable with, though, so I tried to do the whole background in rainbow colors, but they came out really muted and kind of depressing. I haven't had a chance to actually paint the bubbles yet, but they're all textured. But yeah, I actually hate the background, so I may make it maroon and just tell her that's where the painting took me.
I get to go home in two weeks, which is a really welcomed break. I get to see my brother for the first time since August, which is always a good thing. And because the two sides of my family are iffy around one another, I technically get two Thanksgivings - one with my father's mother, two uncles, and their boyfriends; one with my mom's mother, two aunts, one uncle, their spouses, and three cousins. Technically, the second Thanksgiving is to celebrate my and my mom's birthdays. I'm actually leaving here early on Monday to get home for my mom's birthday. Skipping two classes for cake, I'm totally alright with. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 10th, 2007|12:23 am] |
|
Today I got critique for my first big piece in creative writing. It was terrifying, but a good thing. I was actually surprised by the fact that people actually understood what I was getting at. The criticism was also pretty helpful... now I just have to bring myself to actually look over my story and change things. I always have issues with that. My next one is either going to be about a guy who gets drunk and cuts off a few of his fingers, or a girl who is born with a guy who plays theme music to accompany everything she does. The last one I turned in to be workshopped was sad, so I figure I want to change it up a bit.
My self-portrait is a little over 50% done, and I'm so happy with it. I have some areas that still need to be reconciled [the shadows on the knee, the background right on the border of the figure, etc.], but generally, what's done is done. I just need to work on the details of the face and the hands, and then yet another painting done. As it turns out, the figure in the painting is basically my size, which I find hysterical. Here it is, so far.
 Then, just to be a fun kid, here are some sweet photos I took from the walk the other day. A hill of some sort: A fence:  A sign:  and Spiderman.:  Not sure I get it either. But whatever. It was a good walk.
Still waiting on info from Delaware about grad school. Yay, art history! Museums, if you're reading this, please hire me. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 7th, 2007|11:55 pm] |
“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”
Neil Gaiman is one of the most intelligent men I've ever wanted to meet. He is the kind of writer that I want to be. This quote is particularly applicable at this time of the year, because this is usually the time of my annual meeting with a boy, quickly followed by my annual emotional breakdown due to this meeting. I was rather hoping to avoid it this year, but apparently annual dates can't be broken, and he's contacted me. No idea how to respond, if at all, and I'm rather tempted to just pretend it never happened and not respond. I think I will.
I went for a good, long walk today, spurred by the events of last night and a talk with my brother. An hour and a half of mostly uphill walking on a gorgeous fall day may be the best idea ever. There was a nature trail with trail markers and lengthy explanations of sites we had already passed read aloud in British accents. Random ears of corn, tanned a deep russet color, naked from the nibbles of animals. Lots of good, crunchy leaves to jump on. At least five deer that you can chase after screaming, "Deer, DEER! DEEEEER!" A Spiderman mask on the post of a worn out fence in the middle of a field. My abs and my legs hurt, but it's a good hurt, and I hope it hurts for the rest of the week. For the rest of the month. I want to hurt well for the rest of my life.
John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats has the most honest voice I have ever heard. If he showed up at my door one day singing Going to Georgia, I would leave everything I owned and follow him to the ends of the earth. We could get an apartment somewhere, and I would ask to help him write, but I wouldn't want to actually help, just to hear him say yes, he wants my input would be enough. The bed would be close to the ground and we'd use white sheets and have no curtains so the sun would always wake us up in the morning. The stove would have gas burners we'd use to light our cigarettes with [I'd've started smoking] and to cook scrambled eggs. Every time the fridge opened, bottles would clink together, and the floor would be cold in the mornings and at night so I'd have to wear his socks, all scrunched up at the ankles because his feet would be bigger than mine, but it's alright.
I guess I'm just lonely. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 6th, 2007|01:38 pm] |
It seems that for yet another year, the onset of fall and the idea of winter coming means depression for this kid. For some reason, it's hit me moreso this week than it has for a long time. There have been at least three occasions in the past two days where I've found myself alone on the verge of tears before I realize that I'm being ridiculous. I don't know why, but October likes to do this to me. When it gets colder, I plan on taking my headphones up to the top of my hill one evening, and listening to music and crying until it gets too cold to cry anymore. I started a tradition last year, and along with pumpkin carving and apples with peanut butter, crying is the new fall fashion.
I've been doing a lot of paintings of cardboard boxen lately. Not by choice, it's for class, but they seem to be coming out alright. The blue one is unfinished here, but I prefer it slightly. I keep trying to do more realistic things, but this is what comes out. It kind of makes me worry about the way I see things. Do I convey everything I see like this to other people? When I tell stories or explain things, is this what it comes out like?
My next project is a self-portrait. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to get a canvas that's taller than I am, which is going to make the product completely impractical to keep around. What the hell am I going to do with a life-sized picture of me? Can't exactly stick it on the fridge or put it on the wall without looking like an insane artistic narcissist. The whole situation has real potential to be hysterical if I go about it right.
I want to go apple picking. That's all.
side note: halloween... batgirl. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 5th, 2007|11:27 pm] |
have you ever had one of those moments when you hear that your entire town may be built on carcinogenic soil, and you imagine what it must have been like for those people in the 50s who were sprayed with pesticides that were supposedly harmless but that later turned out to give their babies flippers or something like that?
paramus, nj. originally entirely celery farms, this quaint little town was smothered in some sort of pesticide that is now killing pets and causing cancer. the first and main site excavated: my old middle school, down the street from my house. other sites: my high school, the middle school across town, etc. And what is the town doing with the contaminated soil? moving it around town. the dirt that used to be in the high school parking lot leftover from construction was moved behind the nearest middle school. the dirt from my middle school remains where it was displaced, but now roped off with a police guard prepared to yell at passersby.
the most interesting piece of this story is that the town knew about the whole thing since january, and the story is just getting out now because a gutsy reporter stole soil [can you steal public soil?] and ran some of his own tests. apparently, the levels of whatever chemical are something like 35 times what they should be, but "still under the legal limit."
on a related note, i saw michael moore's sicko, and plan on moving to england or canada in the future. sorry america. happy 5th of july. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 24th, 2007|10:26 pm] |
my dreams over the past two nights have made me doubt my sanity.
friday night: i am at christian bale's house to babysit his infant daughter. he and i discuss the architecture of his house, and he values my opinions concerning the color of his shingles. we enter the first floor of his townhouse-like home, where i notice that the house seems to be on wheels, shifting slightly. the ceiling of the room is actually a funnel leading from the rest of the house down to this room, where i also see an acquaintance from school [although here he's british] in charge of pushing a rolling bathtub underneath the funnel to catch the water runoff. christian and i go upstairs to get his daughter, where the same acquaintance from school is sitting, having just watched her for "three hours." i wake up.
saturday night: i meet christian bale for the first time. i tell him about the aforementioned dream. he tells me to stop smoking crack before bed.
this is why i don't leave my brain in charge of anything important. christian, if you know anything about this, call me.
new job starts tomorrow. for some reason, i feel like it's a good sign that i'm going to bed smelling like cigarette smoke. god, i love that smell. we'll see if it does me any good.
same bat time, same bat place. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 24th, 2007|01:09 am] |
Once again, It begins. Yes, "It" with a capital It. I'm an awful person for not working on my real writing, but instead starting this up again. However, I doubt I'll show it to many, which makes me feel slightly better.
I got new glasses recently, which also makes me feel bad, as they are even thicker and more plastically framed than my last pair. Eventually, I hope to disappear in my glasses. I feel like Woody Allen, but I love them. Maybe I'll accept it and make jokes about being Jewish and generally self-deprecating remarks. Maybe.
I've freed myself from Bed Bath and Beyond, though I am now an employee of the Ridgewood Board of Education, which may not be much better. I feel as though painting and cooking with elementary school kids is almost the same as helping elderly women redecorate their bathrooms, so at least I'm in familiar territory. Maybe my superior folding skills will even come in handy.
Happy birthday, Eric. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
sherunsguns's journal
