tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26136046583581615772024-03-18T20:22:42.104-07:00hurricane heart.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.comBlogger244125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-15567856487609891122013-10-08T08:24:00.001-07:002013-10-08T08:24:04.271-07:00Write, right?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: 'Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro';">You bring out the writer in me.<br />The black knit beanie and kohl eyeliner.<br />The staying up till midnight catching words like fireflies on a page.<br />You bring out the writer in me.<br />The surburban star gazer in asphalt parking lots.<br />Bad poetry in blue ink on the back of my hands.<br />You bring out the writer in me.<br />Living your life in adjectives.<br />Watching you for a clue as to what is behind your poker face.<br />You bring out the writer in me.<br />San Francisco eyes have me flipping through the thesaurus for more words to describe fog.<br />You bring out the writer in me.<br />Shakey hands and black coffee.<br />Bruises under my eyes and crumpled receipts.<br />You bring out the writer in me.<br />When you lift me a couple inches off my feet<br />and I struggle to find the words because it feels like coming home.<br />You bring out the writer in me.</span></div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-10150058374884267452013-05-15T22:34:00.002-07:002013-05-15T22:37:11.765-07:00@$$holes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Pulling receipts blue and crinkled from back pockets</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Two lattes (decaf for her, regular for me,) </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>one tea unsweetened</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>On the back, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>a list of names to admire</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Murakami and Kerouac</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>and Bukowski and Plath</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>I disagree with Modest Mouse, Bukowski is a good read but he's not an asshole</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Because how could an asshole write something that leaps in my heart like this? </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>But then again- Sylvia was suicidal in ways a teenage girl with a broken heart couldn't understand</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>And Kerouac spent his life chasing after the mad ones and Murakami was born into the wake of devastation </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Maybe it (asshole, heartbreak, deep wrist cuts, always leaving never coming home, WWII)</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Is a requirement, the fuel behind the words</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i><a href="http://beautylikeakaleidoscope.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">_Katie</a></i></span><br />
<br />
Scars like train tracks across our wrists<br />
Telling of night spent staring at the ceiling<br />
With a knife in our heart and tears on our cheeks<br />
And demons that whisper behind our spaced out eyes<br />
Assholes<br />
Self absorbed<br />
Genius <br />
Writers<br />
These things seem to all be synonymous<br />
The more tortured the soul<br />
The more poetry slips out<br />
Like a fog in the night <br />
Unnoticed, the lines become our stories<br />
The dreams aren't truly dreams<br />
But rather lines we've whispered <br />
Roads we've traveled<br />
Choices made with the roll of dice<br />
Art comes out of experience<br />
The reason that these lines make your heart leap<br />
Is because at one time or other<br />
You have stood on the same road as Plath, Kerouac, Bukowski<br />
Perhaps the view was altered<br />
A tree or two missing<br />
The street signs have changed names<br />
All the same<br />
You find yourself standing in their steps<br />
You walk the lonely echoing halls of their imaginations <br />
Plath's asylum is your own<br />
Except instead of linoleum and florescent lighting<br />
Your asylum is inside tattered blankets and cold nights <br />
When the morning seems light years away<br />
The click click click of the ceiling fan<br />
Lulling you into a quiet hypnosis <br />
_Jillian<br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
This was the email chain that inspired NaNoWriMo 2013. Since school has let out, I've been meaning to reopen the files, rediscover the art of story. My apologies for the wintery photograph, I just couldn't wait till next snowfall to share it.</h4>
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-81156104999978750222013-05-05T17:28:00.002-07:002013-05-05T20:25:58.546-07:00Amsterdam <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">They told us those stars were rocks we’d never reach. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You didn’t believe them then, not now, not ever.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Hands on your hips, h</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">ead tilted defiantly backward.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Just a kiss. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Out there under the canopy of trees that was our fortress.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Now the rain is hitting the pavement and like the little worms on the sidewalk post flood,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">the memories come out of hiding. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">“Watch” you said, </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">flipping over the rail and offering me your hand. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">As if my eyes ever left yours. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">As if we weren’t indestructible. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">As if all these years later we both wouldn’t be sabotaging relationships because we never really forgot that night on my cracked front porch when you whispered a word that wasn’t goodbye. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Summers come around. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Wander streets, our knobby knees and tans. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You were the first person to ever point out the faint freckles on my nose. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Before we met I was a virgin storyteller. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You gave me a story to tell though, in basements and guitar solos. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Hunched over leather bound notebooks I spent my meager allowance on, </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">shoulders and forearm protective.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">“What are you writing about, me?” you asked with a smile.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I ruffled your hair and laughed indignantly, pretending the </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">butterflies weren’t devouring me.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">“You’re so vain”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I admonished, though your name was on the page, hidden beneath my hand like a secret.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">My Father liked your rock and roll ways, and my Mother prayed for your soul under her breath when you drove past music blaring, hand out in a wave. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You were spray paint and fireworks. You were swing sets and garage bands.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You were vertigo, thunderstorm, pinball and hero. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You were apologies, secret handshakes, mind reader and tears.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Now you’re gone. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Gone like my childhood. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Like my fifth cup of coffee. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Gone like that goddamn homework assignment I can’t find. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You’re gone like winter, like the lake house, like smoke in my clothes. You’re gone like every piece I ever wrote and then ripped into shreds. Like every band I was into when I was fourteen, every radio song that I loved and failed to catch the name of, every birthday party.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The place where you show your fingerprints is whenever I try to write about some other boy, some other adventure, some other short story with novel potential. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-31536196980301119762013-02-28T19:54:00.001-08:002013-02-28T20:05:01.220-08:00Mineshaft<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You roll your eyes at the boys who zip down the cliff on their snowboards, shirtless in the cold.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For a second you wish that you were that fearless but then again safety is underrated when you're young and invincibility is just a flimsy facade because too many people your age are already gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You watch the minutes walk out the door, life on a line in between sips of red wine and incoherent comments to your friend, the wall. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You read the sort of books your grandfather read in high school without the slightest sense of irony and there are days that usually aren't Monday where you fall a little in love with humanity at large. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When you dig your hands deep into your coat pockets and come up with a tissue with rust colored blood stains folded carefully inside and remember the person who handed it to you then sat next to you in the snow on that cold night when you needed a friend the most because stars seemed reachable and your scars stuck out in bold relief. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The little comic strips stuck in economics textbooks are helplessly dry as the smiles in the school hallways are wry and you hope to God that you'll be home soon. </span><br />
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-24576955757207593412013-01-24T13:14:00.000-08:002013-01-24T13:14:56.889-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We were sitting across from each other studying (him psych, me econ)<br />
snickering when the guy next to us shook his foot like a rabbit.<br />
<br />
The overwhelming loneliness that’s become too common overcame me. <br />
I gazed at the snow flakes falling in the courtyard with pain in my eyes. <br />
Felt him watching, studying me.<br />
Turning from the window.<br />
Staring straight into his eyes<br />
I asked “Does this school ever make you feel like a ghost?<br />
And he whispered back with a wry smile <br />
"Everyday”<br />
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-19118482160495061392012-12-31T18:40:00.003-08:002012-12-31T18:40:46.142-08:00Highlight Reel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6C_z7DS6x-yUCUNqn9UlOogLIhYvu_5yhwEO0K70eF8NH-cW3pG6WAb_ESo7WIldFHFvoMZfMeXOzk9SPaC9g4dR1jWqQonqi03qZ9jQdf1kkBk4Cl2upzKNZET1Hdv7Qzr5DXzkduvU/s1600/IMG_2409.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6C_z7DS6x-yUCUNqn9UlOogLIhYvu_5yhwEO0K70eF8NH-cW3pG6WAb_ESo7WIldFHFvoMZfMeXOzk9SPaC9g4dR1jWqQonqi03qZ9jQdf1kkBk4Cl2upzKNZET1Hdv7Qzr5DXzkduvU/s640/IMG_2409.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Years Eve 2011</td></tr>
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Staring out across my yard at the Christmas lights garish against the December night sky and trying to pick out a singular light bulb the way I've tried to pick out the exact moments this past year that have changed my life.</div>
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"Where are you going?" I asked him this day last year. </div>
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"I have to go help my best friend propose to his girlfriend. Happy New Year, let's get married, that sort of deal" </div>
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He smiled but there was something beneath it that I wouldn't understand until months later.</div>
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I stood in the back alley that night, caught up in the longness of the day, exhaling and wishing on the streetlights for lack of stars that I could get through this next year.</div>
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Fast forward//:</div>
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The Fault In Our Stars. </h4>
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There is something about this book that epitomizes this year.</div>
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I saved it up for a road trip, because I instinctively knew it was special. </div>
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Existentially fraught free throws, and the pursuit of anything with lasting value. </div>
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Love is keeping the promise anyways, even if you didn't know the implications when you swore "for always" in the first place. </div>
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You put the killing thing between your lips but you leave it powerless to destroy you.</div>
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You don't choose whether or not you get hurt in this world, but you do get some say in who hurts you. </div>
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Mostly, though, to embrace the infinities within life, no matter their length.</div>
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Snowboarding</h4>
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I fell head over heels for this sport and the way the cold nips my nose, stomach drops as you build up speed,</div>
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the lodge, conversations with strangers around the fire, impromptu friendships, the cafeteria in the basement where you can sit with coffee and a book, the fire escapes, artwork on the walls and the view of the sun setting over the river. One week and I'll be jiggling the key in the lock of Four-Nineteen, my family's attic penthouse where we live in this massive space with beds pushed up against the walls and you can see into all three states from the window. There were so many memories from this year, and I'll hold onto them for awhile.</div>
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On falling out.</h4>
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The words becoming fewer and the voices more hoarse. Of losing eye contact, dropping my eyes to the floor.</div>
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The space becomes a canyon. And it hurts. Tears on nights when the air seems thin, releasing the barbed wire of a friendship that's turned murky, hand bleeding, then scabbing over until it's just a faint scar that I run my thumb over and smile at the nice memories from time to time.</div>
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Turning eighteen.</h4>
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And expecting everything to change. Expecting to feel six inches taller, lots smarter and waking up to the dreadful realization that change takes effort and not just time.</div>
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City Museum.</h4>
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There were quite a few places I went this Summer, none of them caught me quite like City Museum. Located in urban Saint Louis, it's this immense building, with an operating Ferris wheel and school bus on the roof and rooms full of things that are beautiful, but more importantly, touchable. The experience is so well worth it. A Neverland of whimsy/ Old battered piano, second hand clothing shop, ten story slide, indoor carnival, mosaic floor, tunnels and places to think. You could get lost inside it's walls and never be entirely sad about it.</div>
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The Summer.</h4>
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Was exhausting in ways I cannot begin to explain. It lasted forever and kept me running on the treadmill of it at breakneck speeds.. Saw the country and yet felt alone. hundred degree weather I couldn't stand.</div>
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Whispered wishes for autumn to come soon. Wasted the summer praying in vain for a savior to rise from these streets.</div>
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My Best friend fell in love.</h4>
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And there aren't many words that I can bring out to describe this. To see the look on her face when she talks about him, or messages from him swearing he loves her more than anything else. Their happiness is infectious.</div>
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It all just went really fast, however, and I wish that the summer hadn't been so crazy so I could have mentally recorded it for a better story telling experience. They are just so beautiful.</div>
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Autumn came.</h4>
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With a gust of air and pounding rain that washed away the dry draught of summer and filled me with it's sapphire blue skies and leaves like perfect flames. Camping trip that was a Dustland Fairytale, wandering down gravel roads alone at night to watch the stars this far out from the city. A boy jumping off the end of a pick up truck, running up to me and saying "I know you think I'm crazy, but I just had to let you know how beautiful you are"</div>
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Trying not to laugh and whispering thank you. Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road "They scream your name at night in the streets, graduation gown lies in rags at your feet". Our silent mantra of november-november-november and the way that the trees look like an impressionist painting when they're scattered among the hills.</div>
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Writing.</h4>
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I have to say that this year, for the first time, the words have taken a life of their own. Looking through this blog, there haven't been all that many posts. Acknowledging that, I wish I could show you the notebooks, the documents, the handwritten letters that may have been lost but at least they were sent. They have become a large piece of who I am.</div>
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You can only write what you've observed, so I've been staring at life with eyes wide open, like an artist trying to catch the way a shadow falls across the room. </div>
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Katie.</h4>
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There have been innumerable people that have come across my path in twenty-twelve. </div>
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No one else touched my life in the way Katie has. She brought to light all the things that I've passed over a thousand times unnoticed. She's shared stories, and within them, truth. We've laughed over boys and cried over loneliness. Birds as metaphors and long journal entries. Guster, Noah and the Whale, music that changed our lives. Long days, happy minutes. Photographs and artwork. Postcards and tickets to follow along on one another's adventures. She has inspired me to write like a madwoman. To not let life slip through my fingers. To drink stronger coffee and talk to more strangers. I am so incredibly thankful for her. </div>
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She's left the best of fingerprints on this year.</div>
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Katherine & Scout.</h4>
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During the month of November, Katie and I wrote a novel together. </div>
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Her Dad asked if it was going to be a Perks of Being a Wallflower fan fiction, and I howled with laughter. Katherine & Scout is about young women lost in Seattle, searching for hope in the bottom of their coffee mugs, and on the spines of the books that line Doris' bookshop. It's a story about loneliness, and ultimately hope. </div>
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About memories, and how they become puzzle pieces of your own personal history book. </div>
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It's about falling in love and traveling far. </div>
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And ultimately looking back long enough to give yourself courage to move forward. </div>
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I plan on posting a bit in the near future about the inspiration behind the 50,000 words, as well as some of our collaborative writing. In it's imperfections, which are many, I love it because it stands for everything we've fought to preserve this year.</div>
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Live Music.</h4>
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Every little bit I can catch and save the notes for later like worn paper in my pockets. From a stranger playing Fur Elise on the lodge's piano to the adult alt bands that play on the little stage in the corner to adorable guys with acoustic guitars in downtown Saint Louis late at night to Tegan and Sara with The Killers at my first choice transfer college and Ray LaMontagne like a prayer at the Chicago Theatre.</div>
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All those bits of live, raw, goose bump inducing music memories are priceless. I want to watch street performers and hopeless musicians as well as the artists that have changed my life in ways that I get choked up trying to explain make the music that fills my soul, watch as the lies that fill up my journals make their way across a rippling, swaying crowd. I'm in love with live music and that feeling you get when you look around at all the faces aglow, feeling the least alone you've ever felt.</div>
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There you have a very brief overview of this year.</div>
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So many things are on the horizon for twenty-thirteen. Most of all, I want to learn how to love till I'm empty.</div>
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Make life beautiful for others as well as myself. Fight loneliness like a cold. Have many moments in which infinity seems plausible.</div>
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Happy 2013. Have a beautiful ending and beginning.</h2>
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<a href="http://looking-for-stars.blogspot.com/2012/12/year-in-review-2012.html" target="_blank">*Libby wrote year in review!</a></div>
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-10760224131497709132012-12-12T09:35:00.000-08:002012-12-12T09:47:12.156-08:00"Are you closer for the tears, or has the weight of all these years left you hollow?"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-jS48MATXAZWybnYmTMvLqg2rQGy0X-2HVZ3pVQqOQC2shgA2FElHfPXBqnO8v3tewBgax-bdohwETFyE22KMyFhifytta-yRZ8dC1e4vyT8LsEPnbkMEKlcBunADT_v60mUQi9lJFs/s1600/IMG_2249.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-jS48MATXAZWybnYmTMvLqg2rQGy0X-2HVZ3pVQqOQC2shgA2FElHfPXBqnO8v3tewBgax-bdohwETFyE22KMyFhifytta-yRZ8dC1e4vyT8LsEPnbkMEKlcBunADT_v60mUQi9lJFs/s400/IMG_2249.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
Tapping my fingers against the table to the rhythm of Someday by the Strokes which is playing in the tinny overhead speakers, a little gift to ease the longness of the day.<br />
Three Mexican men are talking in voices that sound like music, the smell of their strong coffee wafting over to me, and even though it's far too late, I crave a refill on my own cup.<br />
Catching their words. Wishing I'd finished Spanish.<br />
Watching people in the reflection of the windows that look out across the parking lot, little mirages of humans, like when you turn the opacity really low in photoshop and can see the layer beneath showing through.<br />
Laughing into my books at text messages. Shoulders. Shaking. Face. Covered.<br />
Making a fool of myself in public as per usual.<br />
Have you ever realized that there is such a fine line between your movements when you are laughing or crying? The same shoulder wracking, face reddening, sounds of a person who is feeling.<br />
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Feeling.<br />
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Thanksgiving. And the weeks leading up to it and following after it.<br />
I have felt this distinct numbness around my soul that I cannot describe.<br />
As if I am an actor in my own life. A spectator, watching my family during the holidays.<br />
Their laughter and stories and quiet triumphs. Felt hollow.<br />
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Without rawness there aren't any words that I can write that come out sounding real.<br />
They are like the glue that you encourage to dry on your fingers, just so you can peel this paper thin carbon copy of your fingerprint. Those words are fragile, flimsy.<br />
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Two weekends ago I sat on the edge of my worn red velvet seat, holding my breath. Waiting for the music to start. The theater was beautiful, the ceilings high. Something out of a different century.<br />
When Vonnegut and F. Scott still wrote books and people went dancing at ballrooms, men with their newsboy caps, charming eyes, women with pin curls and coy smiles.<br />
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Ray LaMontagne came out onto the stage. His music was like a prayer. His guitar reached down and started the numbness thawing, like the bright sun in March melts snow off of asphalt, water vapor rises like mist, catching the sunlight.<br />
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His speaking voice was beautiful. How do you describe a speaking voice? He spoke like he sings.<br />
Like every word that leaves his lips is a wish. He struck me as a person that understand loneliness.<br />
And how it feels to be afraid and want to hide from the things that are too scary to explain.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xn9x_9Gt5q0" target="_blank">Like Rock and Roll and Radio.</a><br />
This song, which I had never heard until that night, made me cry, sitting there in all awash in wonder.<br />
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"Are you still in love with me?<br />
Like the way we used to be?<br />
Or is it changing?<br />
Does it deepen over time<br />
Like the river that is winding through the canyon<br />
....<br />
Are you closer for the tears, or has the weight of all these years left you hollow?"<br />
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<br />
<br />
Slowly the shell is coming off. I'm learning to feel alive again. It's a slow process.<br />
<br />
These next few months are going to change my life dramatically. I want to become new.<br />
Feeling alive seems like an important first step.<br />
____________________________________<br />
<br />
Also, I'm in the process of writing a lengthy "Year in review". I encourage you all to do the same.<br />
I want to hear about your years, and the changes that have come to your life.<br />
Your stories are so important to me, and so are your comments.<br />
The top photo was just me playing with my camera's self timer. They all came extremely out of focus.<br />
My guitar playing is really bad, just so you know. I've just been trying to learn Like Rock and Roll and Radio. The photos are for <a href="http://samsrecord7.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Sam</a>, who requested them. Also, justsoyouknow, I usually reply to comments.<br />
Love from Jillian.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-54681005908725360122012-11-30T13:34:00.002-08:002012-11-30T13:35:29.267-08:00Payne's Gray<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Emma caught me staring at the back of my hands last weekend and mentioned that they were tiny.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">That wasn't what I was thinking about, however.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Our fingers, red from running across the freakishly cold parking lot, mine short, hers long.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Nails, both pared down to the tips, hers from her lifelong chronic nail biting and mine because I just cut them down so I could practice guitar again, unpainted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was looking from my hands to Em's, noticing the scars and remembering the stories that went along with them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And thinking about how deeply intertwined our own stories were. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now I'm sitting at the table, helping Nica with her math and writing. Listening to The Lumineers and Collin Hays (Darn, I knew I grabbed that character name from somewhere other than my imagination)because my little sister has good taste in music.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Drinking my third cup of black coffee and getting excited to see Ray LaMontagne tomorrow night at the Chicago Theatre, and for the end of NaNoWriMo. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We're just grayscale humans in a technicolor universe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-56508423427657627422012-11-17T07:59:00.000-08:002012-11-17T08:15:24.581-08:00In between days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I can't remember all the times I've tried to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass" _Counting Crows</span></h2>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday </span></i></h3>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I hung a map of this state on my wall. So I can trace the roads I've wandered down, and the origins of people that matter. Here are the twin cities where my parents met.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
State Street and Madison, where I came into existence. This is the town where my best friend was born.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This is the stretch of Milwaukee Avenue where my immigrant grandparents owned a greenhouse.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
88, the highway I've taken west five times this year, to get away from the concrete that constitutes my life. Maps are comforting. They stretch out, all the interconnecting streets, a twisted yarn full of memories.</div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Today</span></i></h3>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I woke up early. It is becoming habitual, and seeing the sunrise never gets old. Falling in love with the way that the floorboards creak in the silence, and my otherwise noisy house is still asleep. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buster_Posey" target="_blank">Posey</a>, my Mother's bird whom I have named after the Giants catcher, protests a lot. He sounds like Jibber Jabber, my childhood toy that would make those squeaky sounds and bob his head. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When I was five, my parents were going to Jamaica, and they asked me if I had any toys I'd like to give to the children there. I sat Jibber down for a serious conversation in the playroom, consulting him to see whether or not he would care to be adopted by foreign children. I whispered that it would be an adventure, and gave him a hug as I relinquished the hold on my favorite toy.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The realization that loving some(one, thing) means letting them go to seek their own great perhaps came to me at an early age.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Anyways, over coffee I started on Zelda Fitzgerald's complete works. Zelda fascinates me, her struggle with being a side kick to F. Scott when she was born a heroine. Their whole relationship was just this big dramatic man vs. man, man vs. self struggle, and I can't help but sympathize. Rather positive I'll have more thoughts on this when I finish. (Katie and I are having daughters named Zelda and they're going to be best friends and write a book called "The Zeldas" we have this all planned out).<br />
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<br />
After finishing one of the short stories I left the house in my pajamas to take pictures of the sunrise.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There must be a metaphor hidden somewhere in the fact that photographs never capture the reality of a scene. They don't tell you what the moment felt like, or exactly how those colors plastered themselves across the sky, or how the frost nipped at my bare feet, casting fairy dust over the rooftops and grass, or how the birds sing as they set off on their yearly road trip down south. There is a certain magic in the fact that words, photographs or music will only capture <i>most </i>of the moments.<br />
<br /></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<b><div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Lately</span></i></b></div>
</b></h3>
there has been this fight going on inside my head. The fight is between trying to conform to the standards of normalcy, or embracing the weirdness that is my life.<br />
<br />
Normal people do not stand sheepishly before the librarian in a tee shirt and a beanie on a cold day, checking out Bukowski, skateboarding magazines, regular YA fiction, biographies, Vogue, and books about the government. Or come home to a house in which your father is playing Green Day in the study and your mom is playing hymns in the kitchen. Normal people do not get up in the middle of family breakfast to walk across the room in order to shut a cabinet someone left open. Normal people do not write stories in their heads, and test out the words in whispers (the best time is in the car, FYI, strangers think you're singing to some nonexistent radio song instead of talking to yourself). Pretty sure normal people do not pour hot water over coffee grounds to make "hobo coffee". Or knit scarves while watching Lord of The Rings.<br />
Those little inconsistencies between who I am, and the people everyone else believe I should be, drive me crazy. It's not that I care, or at least I know enough that I shouldn't care. More that a life of being <i>the weird one </i>and come from a family of <i>strange people </i>sort of wears down on you after eighteen years, and given the chance to reinvent oneself, it becomes tempting at times to throw out all those idiosyncrasies.<br />
<br />
I won't give up being strange though.<br />
In the end I know that to attempt such a thing would be a form of spiritual suicide.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I want my best friend to be okay. More than anything. That is all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Books in the mail</span></h3>
My textbooks are slowly trickling in. Getting passionate about these topics. The design book is one of those beautiful books that make you fall in love with flipping through the glossy pages.<br />
The microeconomics book has this amazing narrative, too. It's neither patronizing nor heady.<br />
Check out this line:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"On a summer afternoon, the drive home from University of Chicago to the north side of the city must be one of the most beautiful in the world. On the left on Lake Shore Drive, you pass Grant Park, some of the world's first skyscrapers and the Willis Tower. Traffic, however, is hell"</blockquote>
I blame my Dad and Emma for my fanatical interest in Economics ;)<br />
<br />
How is everyone?</div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-83807340890634642322012-10-23T19:11:00.002-07:002012-10-23T19:11:24.306-07:00No words.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
We throw stardust into the atmosphere and breath deeply in the cold morning air to watch our breath fade off into the distance, a vapor, like our very existence.<br />
The words get caught in the back of our throats and our emotions are tied up in our hearts.<br />
We walk the dusty roads at night out to see the stars and feel like vulnerability of being alone and alive.<br />
There is such a delicate line between alone and lonely and it gets crossed all the time, a wobbly drunk walking the white line at the side of the road, veering in and out of the boundaries of human versus traffic.<br />
The texture of tree bark, all it's rough lines and ridges and the way it feels when I'm leaned up against it with a head full of ideas that don't even make sense, phone ringing in my pocket and "Oh my God" is the only sentence that will come out, said in a whispered tone of awe.<br />
Desperate need to pinch yourself awake, only to realize with a slow shake of your head that this is all, in fact, reality.<br />
<br />
As the days fill in and get checked off on my calendar, and I get older and only marginally more wise, I worry that there are feelings that words will never attach themselves to.<br />
The idea scares me.<br />
<br /></div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-55628576157748526902012-10-21T06:11:00.000-07:002012-10-21T08:52:32.946-07:00Thoughts from 3am<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzR8LJTmD1Lpd_TpbXhozeP4MeQokIIUV-TXVdoN7wsgMjk_Yqb8t5bTwVsE-SnWuiaP2I2nRIkfc6uS-QVZXvLejF-PF-bvLznAPTcbBrhkao9I53NhbsoknF1fIppZJbXMjrA-xCkb0/s1600/IMG_1501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzR8LJTmD1Lpd_TpbXhozeP4MeQokIIUV-TXVdoN7wsgMjk_Yqb8t5bTwVsE-SnWuiaP2I2nRIkfc6uS-QVZXvLejF-PF-bvLznAPTcbBrhkao9I53NhbsoknF1fIppZJbXMjrA-xCkb0/s400/IMG_1501.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Nobody had the decency to abandon me there.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My paint brushes need washing and my orchids need watering.<br />
My desk is scattered with photographs and magazines.<br />
Yesterday's clothing lies in a ball at the bottom of my hamper and there is a day old mug of coffee that I mindlessly forgot.<br />
At night the windows are opened, and leaves fly in through them.<br />
I awake with leaves in my hair, and curled up in my blankets, my earbuds tangled precariously around my neck.<br />
At night I lie awake wondering how my arms and shoulders and collar bones all connect together in a way that is functional and how that it's beautiful that bones can get along and work together for a greater good.<br />
On my walls there are photographs, sitting there like little paper ghosts of the past.<br />
Haunting me with the previous smiles and haircuts of others and myself.<br />
<br />
<br />
Trying to gather my thoughts, but they are like children at a fair, constantly tugging this way and that.<br />
Quick, let me go check to make sure there aren't any mini van driving soccer mom serial killers outside my window who found my name and birthday in the neighborhood directory.....<br />
<br />
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<br />
OK. I am good.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH95S8ABU1kOzZTUOhhnaTj9rzLIWVyZFe-ps4FnRZdRVnBRsdmTHrX3ebQPbpC8s63fRIQVn3jQtry-5KKFV-qhyphenhyphen0GIgflaXRK4V6H2bYdzE8WQmEa9LOuaG4EqY1HepZ5JNXGFylBZw/s1600/IMG_1702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH95S8ABU1kOzZTUOhhnaTj9rzLIWVyZFe-ps4FnRZdRVnBRsdmTHrX3ebQPbpC8s63fRIQVn3jQtry-5KKFV-qhyphenhyphen0GIgflaXRK4V6H2bYdzE8WQmEa9LOuaG4EqY1HepZ5JNXGFylBZw/s640/IMG_1702.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizr-siHXQwPjqwML1RqQbOvLvxcmIawFF2lLITCvgH5b_H5O13lQ6VcAnMJpX8red7y80FhfNKICNKaWyH8WLYYwGzbibncB6LZx_ASFR16RMQFoOUoxCvi5uQnA6p0xDQGjIu6D0AtqA/s1600/IMG_1808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizr-siHXQwPjqwML1RqQbOvLvxcmIawFF2lLITCvgH5b_H5O13lQ6VcAnMJpX8red7y80FhfNKICNKaWyH8WLYYwGzbibncB6LZx_ASFR16RMQFoOUoxCvi5uQnA6p0xDQGjIu6D0AtqA/s400/IMG_1808.jpg" width="300" /></a>Went away last weekend. Across to the tristate.<br />
One of my homes in the world.<br />
There are places that completely unscatter me, where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.<br />
Sitting on the fire escape in the rain with a book and a cup of coffee is the most wonderful thing, especially in autumn when you can look down into the foggy hills and see the brightness of all the colors, like an impressionist painting. Climbing the hills in Toms, making it back to the lodge only to see a man in a kilt playing bagpipes (Wedding idea, EJ? ;) or running down to the locker rooms with their gunmetal gray walls and humming vending machines.<br />
How all the faces are the same in the summer, which surprised me even if it shouldn't have.<br />
Someone playing Fur Elise on the piano.<br />
One of those places that you know inside out from bad weather days spent playing hide and go seek.<br />
I'll be back in January, the week before college starts.<br />
<br />
There is a 61 song playlist from this week, eloquently titled "stuff", of all the music I wanted to listen to but hadn't in awhile.<br />
<br />
Back up there.... where I said I was safe? Scratch that.<br />
A computer called "jilian" came up on my local computer network. My computer's name is Asher. No one in my family has a computer with that name. Someone is out to get me.<br />
Stupid directory.<br />
<br />
And here is a closing quote:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEBAQLjlHBK3I3rzQT37DZ0z_FTIa6aVyp1K2xK2QFBmFFf9OKgaZmOAd8G-VYirKEplvK560rhkyyGb-B7e_92dc2xw3JFxJ1q6wHejNNfFZvVaJf-oRLc0MgJ9VZ7eP_P8XnBgu7sA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-10-21+at+10.49.35+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEBAQLjlHBK3I3rzQT37DZ0z_FTIa6aVyp1K2xK2QFBmFFf9OKgaZmOAd8G-VYirKEplvK560rhkyyGb-B7e_92dc2xw3JFxJ1q6wHejNNfFZvVaJf-oRLc0MgJ9VZ7eP_P8XnBgu7sA/s400/Screen+Shot+2012-10-21+at+10.49.35+AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-3552276913263718332012-09-11T19:58:00.000-07:002012-09-11T19:58:04.901-07:00And we'll all float on alright<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a1SZuR62Y5oGZ3hDtEAj3Z9h4zeYSElya3AZEwPaWa_3_0h9zV75h3azqY6J3w9lBq1GD24HgN9iZ2X-XHncyn1iBwRg1G9fCwdHPZQmi71Rge8AdBEL1entcPZka_KEcW72z_qe-TY/s1600/IMG_0206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a1SZuR62Y5oGZ3hDtEAj3Z9h4zeYSElya3AZEwPaWa_3_0h9zV75h3azqY6J3w9lBq1GD24HgN9iZ2X-XHncyn1iBwRg1G9fCwdHPZQmi71Rge8AdBEL1entcPZka_KEcW72z_qe-TY/s640/IMG_0206.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
Collapse after mowing the lawn.<br />
Shoulder blades against the freshly cut grass.<br />
Swearing at the sky. Sharp breath.<br />
Air that still smells like summer.<br />
Flip flops stained green despite my dad's neat label on the mower,<br />
warning to check your shoes.<br />
And thinking how beautiful this is, despite the overwhelming sadness and confusion that occasionally overcomes my existence.<br />
The small dance party held yesterday, that mostly involved hopping around singing<br />
Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself".<br />
How a new book feels. Or a hot mug of tea.<br />
And the way a person smiles when you acknowledge them.<br />
It's validating.<br />
Maybe there is this insatiable need to not be just another stupid human.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiL1GadA2tw4JW-k-xud4FNjizN-uO1DiQi3I_KTS1bJH0Lp4HIDxikXDPRewYOCziB4qn-OUtV7k4L7I0qOcsXrRy25j9r6VDn6x0KGjup3cksEbxN4opGrx12-Ddj8fRWFz0PEbpbg4/s1600/IMG_0905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiL1GadA2tw4JW-k-xud4FNjizN-uO1DiQi3I_KTS1bJH0Lp4HIDxikXDPRewYOCziB4qn-OUtV7k4L7I0qOcsXrRy25j9r6VDn6x0KGjup3cksEbxN4opGrx12-Ddj8fRWFz0PEbpbg4/s640/IMG_0905.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Reading Bird By Bird. Anne Lamott is a genius. She makes me want to start writing and then never stop.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro';"><br /></span>
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I suspect that he was a child who thought differently than his peers, who may have had serious conversations with grown ups, who as a young person, like me, accepted being alone quite a lot. I think that this sort of person often becomes either a writer or a career criminal.<br />Throughout my childhood I believed that what I thought about was different from what other kids thought about.<br />It was not necessarily more profound, but there was a struggle going on inside me to find some sort of creative or spiritual or aesthetic way of seeing the world and organizing it in my head.<br />I read more than other kids; I luxuriated in books. Books were my refuge. I sat in corners with my little finger hooked over my bottom lip, reading, in a trance, lost in places and times to which books took me."</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I have a friend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And she tells me that she wants to find her god.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She believes in the existence of something greater than herself but can't quite put a finger on it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I like this friend, with her crazy red hair, huge blue eyes and flowing dresses. She's tall, and rail thin, with a foreign accent. We go to the same school, or at least we will when I start in a couple months. She's different than me, though.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She shrugs off bad grades, and dances around. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Thinks I'm decidedly masochistic for liking NaNoWriMo. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
Conversations with her have sparked thoughts, tiny embers in my mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
About what it means to see God in a sunset, or a song, or even a smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That God is not an entity that belongs exclusively to the pretty people, or the people that have things together. He's just as real to the toothless lady pushing a shopping cart of her meager belongings around the streets of Chicago. The nerds, the geeks, the hippies, anarchists, beatniks, and people losing their minds in asylum. You know the expression warts and all? Well that's the way he sees us, and that's the way we are to see others. I can believe in a God like that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He calls us to the fringe. And here is something I've found.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Life is so beautiful out on the fringe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
Super exciting plans for NaNoWriMo this year. Details to follow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Also, Tunafish leaves some of the best comments I've ever read.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Actually, all of you do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro';"><br /></span></div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-85387878153719051192012-09-06T20:36:00.000-07:002012-09-06T20:54:59.777-07:00X-Ray Mirror<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait by Emma</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The way in which they treat the waiter/waitress</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">How they feel about the weather</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Whether they dog ear pages or highlight in books</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Fingernails and hands in general</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Their preferred creative outlet</span></div>
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How much they dread/enjoy talking on the phone</div>
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Whether or not they drink coffee<br />
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If they ever forget to eat</div>
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How honest they are with themselves (and others)</div>
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If they correct your grammar</div>
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And whether or not they get nervous before haircuts.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://younghabitats.tumblr.com/post/25401674287/things-that-say-a-lot-about-people-the-way-which" target="_blank">via</a> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Around waitresses or waiters, I tend to be quiet, and overly apologetic. My words run together in a Chicagoan slur. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">My "Please" and "Thank you"s are too liberal, placed at awkward moments in our brief exchanges. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I'm bad at eye contact, and must come across as being slightly autistic. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Once in awhile though, I'll meet someone in this way that I would love to friends with. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In Independence, Missouri, there was a waitress a few years older than me with long dark brown hair and kind green eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She found out about my vegetarianism, and we talked a little bit about that, among other things.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Asked if she had lived there a long time, a typical out of towner question. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I used to live in a town that makes Independence look like a city. It's nice here, though it took some getting used to. Change is like that"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">she shrugged. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Long and muggy summer days are detestable. How sweat adheres a tee shirt to my back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Lazy looks on the faces of children. The paper fans that women carry around, not for fashion's sake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Heat coming off the pavement in waves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Autumn, please come quickly. With your breezes, and un-ironic beanies. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So I can skate for an hour and not feel like passing out afterwards. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Leaves, and National Novel Writing Month. The bonfires and wishes. Excuses to study. Hot coffee that isn't oppressive.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqI9DOAxlkoEt6gaJAFd9KtqdHYaP9YhHmECAb-lFdD0GePAH6WJeyHPK_nWChnhjDxz2WKm7daf9AEUBDB2QpWrraeaWU9hOqtMDaZvMvEw9Lljaq0x4LXH1txunF89Rdxhe_9HmYQs/s1600/IMG_2732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqI9DOAxlkoEt6gaJAFd9KtqdHYaP9YhHmECAb-lFdD0GePAH6WJeyHPK_nWChnhjDxz2WKm7daf9AEUBDB2QpWrraeaWU9hOqtMDaZvMvEw9Lljaq0x4LXH1txunF89Rdxhe_9HmYQs/s400/IMG_2732.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Even Winter, with the snow falling all around. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Books upon books and flame in the fireplace. Snow that needs to be shoveled from our three car wide driveway. Weekend road trips after school to go snowboarding, bumping along the freeway in the back of some 12 passenger van, listening to music.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Tea, and holidays. The way the cold nips your nose, and how you can get away with wearing sweaters and boots every day. Photo shoots with cousins. Art class in some nondescript classroom. Running without sweat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Everyone complains and hop's around trying to stay warm. The cold of Bree's Jeep's leather seats.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Sunday afternoon football which is consequently my personal "Sketch-and-ask-completely-daft-questions" time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And Spring. With my birthday smack dab in the middle of all the trees blooming, and the first whispers of warm air after Winter. That is how I feel about the weather.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-71wSGo-EBxYRYI2g7AWRs9_WCXJ1m83mfPkfrzZ2r12-DJPujXls0mbsJD3wgkIMDQ2GCIDIXWglcsRXAFG4iz4UND5gq00JjhrF5qugZoNN5my6VxxZmA4fg_KrMIU5BPR37haN8W8/s1600/IMG_0924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-71wSGo-EBxYRYI2g7AWRs9_WCXJ1m83mfPkfrzZ2r12-DJPujXls0mbsJD3wgkIMDQ2GCIDIXWglcsRXAFG4iz4UND5gq00JjhrF5qugZoNN5my6VxxZmA4fg_KrMIU5BPR37haN8W8/s400/IMG_0924.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The pages of my books, lined up on my bookshelves like soldiers, slightly tilted to one side.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Little tears in their dust jackets. Graphite on the edges of the pages from being tossed into my messenger bag with my art supplies dancing around at will. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I underline things that resonate as truth, with faint pencil. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I used to be more conservative with marking up my books, because I thought if one of my siblings or friends wanted to read them, it would be distracting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But reading through my dad's old books and seeing notes in the margins always felt special as if I was seeing what he was thinking when he read the book, and I can compare it to the way I am feeling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> The corners of the softcovers are always turned upwards, and the spines are usually bent so that you can practically fold the books onto themselves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Someday I hope to have bookshelf upon bookshelf, filled with all my favorite books and in all likelihood, if you find youself thumbing through one, ou will see my handwritten commentary between the lines.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My finger nails are unpainted right now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Usually when I do paint them, I find myself chipped off the polish myself in a bout of absentminded nervousness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> They have their little half moons, and are only about an eighth of an inch beyond my finger tips. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When my great grandmother, Catherine, held me as a baby, she looked at my hands and smiled. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She told my Mom that I have my great-grandfather's fingers, tapered at the ends to practically a point. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They aren't pretty, but they do their job.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There is a hangnail on my left thumb, and the skin beneath it is pink, and annoyed at me for not taking care of it sooner.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I have a lot of scars on my hands, that signify some of the life I have lived through them. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Across the back in large patches, from an a not so pleasant meeting of my hand and the road.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> On my right knuckle, a deep scar from the sharp bottom of the pool, hit while diving. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I almost always am wearing a ring, and if I'm not, you will most likely catch my rubbing my ring finger,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> feeling for the phantom ring to play with. These are my hands. They allow me to capture all the ideas running through my brain. Without them I would be one frustrated individual.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Writing is my preferred creative outlet. Because when I write I feel as if all the the things that are bottled inside of my head get to see some daylight. Taking photographs that catch moments is lovely as well, although I try not to over photograph things, leaving a little room to remember things with my brain instead. Guitar, though I stink. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sketching too, from time to time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There is something about phones that have always made me nervous. Perhaps this comes from having a childhood where I either played with friends in person, or wrote them long and detailed notes about the books I'd been reading and how our dolls where going to react after such a long separation that in reality was probably only a week. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Even now when it comes to calling a friend up on the phone to make plans, my palms get clammy while I search through my contact list. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My voice always falters, and I have a habit of including my last name in the "Hi, this is...." even when I'm calling people I know really well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Give me some face to face time, or if that isn't an option, write me an email or better yet a letter that is full of seemingly insignificant details that make me happy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I do drink coffee. Black or with a little milk. A few degrees warmer than lukewarm. Never too hot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Never with sugar. Never in a styrofoam cup. Always sipped slowly so I can feel the caffeine slowly overtake my bloodstream. Somedays, if I forget to eat, though, it gives me the jitters and I ask myself why I drink coffee if it makes a naturally energetic person freaking psychotic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I skip meals. There are days when there is a long list of things that are infinitely more important than eating. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Eating seems so... human, on days when I feel that I need to be superhuman. It's not healthy, I suppose, and everyone in my family and some friends make it seem like I'm purposely doing this to harm myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh come on, it's not like I'm underweight or anything. I just get preoccupied by things that seem more significant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Honestly, I sometimes lie to myself in order to keep believing in something when real faith has long been expired.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As far as honesty with others goes, I try.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My answers can come off as obscure. Not dishonest. Just not a very clear picture of what I really think or believe or feel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Awhile back I made a deal with myself that I'd only correct someone's grammar if it changed what they meant to say in a dramatic way. It's hard, admitedly, and sometimes I need to bite my tongue. I tend to be critical.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I hate it when I make typos.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Haircuts make me nervous. Especially when it's something or someone new.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">______________________________________________________________</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Credit to Katie for the idea.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">KATIE AND I GOT SHOUT OUTS FROM KIMYA DAWSON ON TWITTER!!!</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That made my day. We're going to email her the answer to her question</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"What could someone say that would make you feel like a schmilion bucks?"</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Thoughts?</span></div>
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-62450283645909003952012-08-29T20:50:00.001-07:002012-09-01T11:52:37.158-07:00Lake House <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One day I will drive up to the lake house in the dead of night.<br />
By myself. All alone. And I will feel the way the dark encompasses the car, and the glow of the radio.<br />
Music will play, something both raw and quiet. The lights on the Skyway whip past at an alarming speed, but I've found Indiana's police to be quite forgiving when it comes to speed.<br />
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The first time I heard that the freeway that separated me from the lake was called the Skyway, I was enchanted. Then I realized that it was just a road.<br />
However, the name never lost it's magic.<br />
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Past the gas station that lets me know it's only half an hour from here.</div>
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Through the town that shuts down at nine.</div>
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The little wooden shack where they sell worms for fishers, the paint chipping off the sign out front.</div>
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"Welcome to Lake Isabella" the sign reads. My heart is up in my throat, and it's all I can do to not cry.<br />
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Into the circular driveway, the very place I learned to ride a bike, then later, to skateboard.<br />
Floodlights leap on, startling me. Turn the car off with shaky hands. Lean against the headrest. Let a long breath out. My phone tells me it's four am.<br />
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Slowly leave the car with just my overnighter. The tears are coming in a steady flow by now, as I walk the steps up to the kitchen door. The smell of the dew laced wood is something familiar. It brings on nostalgia so deep it's like a reverie. The door, and how it tries to slam your ankles. And I'm home.<br />
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The tacky green carpet that screams 90's. The walls painted in warmth. That scent of lake water, good food, and those little plug in air fresheners that stay in my clothes for months.<br />
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Collapse on my bed. My room is right off the front door. Wake up at eleven, which is actually ten back where I live.<br />
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Sit at the table in the kitchen with a mug of warm coffee. Forgot to bring my own, and so it's Folgers instead of Starbucks. My grandparents aren't coffee snobs.<br />
Tap my fingers across the table. Remembering all those years ago when Kevin and I were strapped into our respective booster chairs, flinging food at the floor.<br />
Steam from my coffee. Eyes close. Then open sharply.<br />
Run back to my room, where the walls are blue and I have a little shelve of books I've torn through.<br />
Knees sink to the carpet, soft though old.<br />
Reach underneath the bed, pulling out a translucent blue Rubbermaid container of paints and charcoals. Water colors that I've done years ago, sitting at the table listening to piano music in the back ground.<br />
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Walk across the house past the octagonal window, slip onto the screened in porch where I've read countless books, ate countless meals, and played countless round of cards.<br />
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And later, when I walk to the lake, down the concrete steps that I rode my bike down and rub the scar above my eyebrow where I hit the ground. Skipping over those garden stones with our hands imprinted in them. Mine only a fraction of the size it is now, with my initials "JC" scrawled messily besides. Still remember the day, even though it was the Summer before Trinity was an entity, so I was only six.<br />
Down to the very point, where I stand, on the dock, to think.<br />
The water is glass because it is only Wednesday and people don't start flooding in until at least Thursday.<br />
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This isn't "my happy place" or any of that nonsense. I've been here at good points in my life as well as bad ones. Lived here the Summer when my brother was in the hospital and no one knew what to do with me. I've cried myself into a headache on the screened in porch more than once. There was also that summer when I didn't know if I'd ever walk correctly again after an accident. I limped along the dirt path in a painfully slow way.<br />
So, no. This isn't a place where everything is perfect. But rather, something in my life that has been consistent.<br />
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Maybe I'll sit here awhile. And throw stones to penetrate the surface.<br />
And remember what my life felt like.<br />
Up until this moment.<br />
And if I'm really lucky, I'll forget that I exist. Instead I'll be a cloud or a drop of rain or a leaf in this still silence that wraps around me like a blanket.<br />
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-54746229492265291262012-08-03T07:59:00.000-07:002012-08-03T08:08:35.469-07:00Chlorine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"I'm done" I stated one day, as adamantly as possible considering I was shivering.<br />
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My parents remained unfazed. So perhaps I had a record of being a tad bit dramatic.</div>
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The pool, the strange glow, the faint smell of bleach. Never could get out of there fast enough. Cold, blue lips, stunning locker rooms, pruney fingers. Hated it.</div>
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It's funny I've found myself there more times this year than I can count.</div>
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The florescent tinge it gives your skin. The motion of pushing yourself with the water instead of against it. The realization that it is completely existentially fraught to get the other side and it's not quite a matter of life or death at this particular instance.</div>
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In St. Louis, I think....wait, it was possibly the Quad Cities at that point of summer.... anyways... sometime in middle July I became obsessed with the concept of the existential fraughtness of practically everything. </div>
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In the Fault In Our Stars by John Green (which you need to read now if you haven't) Augustus is showing Hazel Grace all his trophies he won playing basketball. He explains how one day he realized how existentially fraught free throws are.</div>
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Existentially fraught. Free throws. I woke up one day and I reached over and found some hotel stationary (that stuff is the ugliest paper I've ever seen) and scribbled in my erratic hand writing that very line.</div>
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In order for something to be existentially fraught it has to hold no lasting significance or meaning. As entertaining as they are, the Olympics are existentially fraught, along with bowling, mini golf, movies, technology, grades, those little robot vacuum cleaners and the list is practically endless.</div>
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<a href="http://www.beautylikeakaleidoscope.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Katie</a> and I have been exploring that, (and talking about a lot of other things besides, I love that girl) making lists of things that aren't existentially fraught. So far all I can come up with is love, sacrifice and possibly adrenaline. I'd love to toss books and music on that list because while they aren't indestructible in terms of oblivion; if information in a book or a line in a song can change a persons life I'm inclined to think it's not for nothing.</div>
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In his book, A Million Miles In A Thousand Years, Donald Miller addresses stories.</div>
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We are all characters in our own stories. What makes our lives interesting is the overcoming of conflict. Wanting something meaningful and struggling to achieve it.<br />
No one wants to watch a movie about a character who went to work, watched TV, fed his cat, and went grocery shopping once a week.</div>
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Myself, I'm not such a good character. I stick to what I know. Don't like chances. Know that I can reach something if I really want to, but sometimes I allow that knowledge to be enough for me. So maybe I quit swimming laps because I found it a waste of time, but I didn't replace that with something meaningful. I dream and read and sleep too much when I should be working harder towards goals and helping people and making a difference. I should change that.</div>
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Just some thoughts. <span id="goog_1588413978"></span><span id="goog_1588413979"></span></div>
</div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-7307028042987450792012-05-25T05:46:00.000-07:002012-05-25T05:46:14.152-07:00Introducing Agloe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Every May my domain expires, and I'm given the choice whether or not to keep the previous year's theme going. Being the sort of person that I am, I usually change things up quite a bit.<br />
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So welcome to Agloe 2012. This is going to be a terrifying, beautiful, exciting year, and I'm thankful to the blogging world for helping me stay sane.<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agloe,_New_York">Agloe </a>came to me while I was sorting through several other names. And it was perfect.<br />
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I've outrun my Paper Tigers, (2009-2010) and now I'm ready to move onto my Paper Town.<br />
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This year there will be more photographs, more anecdotes, more random writings, some artwork, and a lot of commenting on my part.<br />
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A huge thanks to everyone who has been there.<br />
You inspire me.<br />
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<br /></div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-39539403005688177472012-03-15T06:00:00.000-07:002012-05-24T13:56:53.052-07:00Photographs, randomness, Amsterdam, disappointment, personality typing and whatnot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One Tuesday night a few weeks ago I found myself in a dusty convince store on the fringes of Chicago. You know the sort, with dusty linoleum, flickering florescent lights, and items that have no apparent uses on the shelves.<br />
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The weirdest thing happened while I was shuffling down the aisle in search of a water bottle. This song came on. An old one. And instantly a face appeared in my mind. Crazy how that works. Then I saw a can of Monster on the shelf, the super huge type, and another face popped into my head, causing a grin to appear on my face. (Because truly, how many non-hilarious memories have to do with super sized cans of Monster?).<br />
In that moment I realized that I associate objects, songs, colors, with people. It's strange.<br />
So during a lecture at this very old college that I had the honor of taking an economics course at, I scribbled down things that reminded me of various people. I love these lists. They're little glimpses of people.<br />
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The song Amsterdam is really special. Why? You might ask? Because I love it.<br />
And THAT is what my best friend would call my textbook display of narcism.<br />
<strike>I just read an interview with the person this song reminds me of.</strike><br />
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Disapointment is something I've had to deal with my whole life, but a lot today. Such a self centered human, I am. (Hello Yoda-Jillian). But really, even now that I am a month away from my eighteenth birthday, I still have to choke down tears and just get over things. I'll admit, it's hard. Especially something you've looked forward to for awhile. Many people are great at not getting their hopes up, unfortunately, I'm not one of them. What an awful, stinging feeling.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spent over half my childhood in this old Chicago home.</td></tr>
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But yeah! Really, it's March 15th now, so I have less than a month till I'm an ADULT.<br />
(Errr, I remember expressing how irksome I found it when people said AD-ult, and then <a href="http://nkdigweed.blogspot.com/">CoCo</a> piped up from her much superior looking sketch that she said it like that. :P I remember too much. I should probably make a list of people who I know IRL's blogs....)<br />
Part of growing up would probably mean that I should be sleeping instead of writing, and head banging to Weezer at 12:05 AM.<br />
Oops.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture shows craziness behind those eyes. I like that.</td></tr>
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Recently for a school project, and because my friend has been obsessed with this for awhile (I get it now) I've been reading up a lot on personality typing. It's fascinating, especially the Myer-Briggs typing. To figure out their system, they have a wealth of <a href="http://www.myersbriggs.org/my-mbti-personality-type/">info on their site,</a> explaining the meanings behind all the seemingly random letters. I'm an <a href="http://www.personalitypage.com/INFJ.html">INFJ</a>, my best friends are (in all estimation) INTP, ENFP and ESTJ, crush is a ESFP, and my little brother is a INTP, and sister is a ISTJ. Seriously, if you're into this, I'd love to hear what types you feel that you relate to.<br />
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Went to a dance in a college gymnasium last weekend. It was a lot of fun. A bit awkward when dancing with a guy you vaguely know, but you get over it quickly. Love the rosy faces, the jumpy music, the crowds of wallflowers, the gym floor under my nylon-ed feet.<br />
Definite repeat. See, homeschoolers don't really miss all that much, do we?<br />
I guess we aren't stuck on a bus, or get to experience the great social hierarchy known as the cafeteria, but maybe we'll survive.<br />
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I think I've made it to the end. Hope you like the pictures. Some of them were taken with my Dad's new medical camera, and it has a beautiful macro lens.<br />
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<br /></div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com16Chicago, IL, USA41.8781136 -87.629798241.6889521 -87.94565519999999 42.067275099999996 -87.3139412tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-65135187407036142952012-02-22T09:46:00.000-08:002012-02-22T09:48:02.216-08:00TV's on too much and I don't ever think enough about the things that matter most.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chestnut, February 2nd 2012</td></tr>
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Somewhere, Winter is having a vacation. Picture some snowball of personified season, sipping pineapple juice out of a coconut in Hawaii. Anyways, this particular year, Winter has been somewhat of a joke in Chicago. Maybe a break of sorts, from it's usual brutality.</div>
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(Luckily, due to snowmaking technology, snowboarding isn't out of the question).</div>
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And yet, it's been a winter of oversized cardigans, big books, and hot tea. So there aren't many complaints.</div>
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There. I started a post off with weather. I am so cliche.<br />
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Writing has been slow for me lately, and I've disappointed myself. Although I've come to realize there are times, where you need to accumulate thoughts, instead of just regurgitating ideas out at the speed of light. Time needs to be allowed to saturate truth, knowledge, and opinions.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weird tissues are weird</td></tr>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">HOW MANY DATES TO WAIT UNTIL YOU START TALKING ABOUT HUMANITY IN THIRD PERSON?</span></b></blockquote>
My best friend, Emma, and myself came up with a little list of articles we wish magazines would feature. I dubbed them "Weird Girl Problems". You can read some of the less specific ones on her blog,<a href="http://writingsofateenageanarchist.blogspot.com/2012/02/weird-girl-problems.html"> here</a>. There were also some pretty funny "believe it or not, we could have used advice for this bizarre occurrence" ones, that I might post on our joint blog. Anyways, if you have any you'd like to submit, PLEASE DO! Leave in comments, and I'l post them with a link to your profile.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(If the swearing offends you, I do apologize)</td></tr>
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As far as the humanity in third person question, in all seriousness, my rants tend to sound like I am an alien, watching people and wondering if they see the ridiculousness of it all.<br />
That's why I relate to Kurt Vonnegut's writing style, because he nitpicks at all the idiosyncrasies of our people without sounding mean, just honest. I try not to be a pessimist, or think the worst of people. No, I love people, yet hate society as a whole. Once, in English, I remember going over how people tend to generalize things, and that it's easier to say "Oh, I love Africans" but it's harder to deal with noisy neighbors. It's easier to love something when it's a large, idealistic version, but when it comes to individual basis, it's a little more difficult kind of love.<br />
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Reading through my NaNoWriMo novel. Ouch.<br />
A lot of rubbish, but maybe scraps worth saving.<br />
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What have you been listening to, music wise? I could use some musical variety right now.<br />
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Cheerio,<br />
Jillian<br />
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PS<br />
I have the Italian National Anthem (dance party version) stuck in my head.<br />
Oy vey, help me.<br />
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<br /></div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-47706012801027666652012-02-02T02:59:00.000-08:002012-02-02T02:59:13.785-08:00Baby, it's 3AM I must be lonely.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4c1130;">"She says it's cold outside and she hands me my rain coat. </span></i></blockquote>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4c1130;">She's always worried about things like that. </span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4c1130;">She says it's all gonna end and it may as well be my fault. She only sleeps when it's raining. She screams, and her voice is straining. </span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4c1130;">She says 'Baby, it's 3AM I must be lonely. And I'm so scared of it all sometimes, the rain's gonna wash away what I believe in"</span></i></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;"><b>_3AM, Matchbox Twenty, (lyrics typed from memory) </b></span><br />
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My alarm clock went off at 3AM this morning. Never intentionally woke up this early before.<br />
Stayed up? Sure.<br />
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Driving through the "mountains" this morning. Really excited to catch a sunrise.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_Efac11xXk-EOmyyi0ErY-KbZEj-TjsFO4l6yO98lF9KIFLbg_TI0ebUOhIuZXWwIrCG2eISKziAx0jWwfAp_nwCQlOCIOcYgR4OP2PZEPUobPns_Lhmb775jvLsldUlk0HBgayLb_A/s1600/IMG_2561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_Efac11xXk-EOmyyi0ErY-KbZEj-TjsFO4l6yO98lF9KIFLbg_TI0ebUOhIuZXWwIrCG2eISKziAx0jWwfAp_nwCQlOCIOcYgR4OP2PZEPUobPns_Lhmb775jvLsldUlk0HBgayLb_A/s320/IMG_2561.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Upon entering the kitchen for coffee, (at 3AM, mind you), I run into this conversation between my 9 year old sister, Nica, and my 15 year old brother Sam.<br />
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"Who wouldn't want the Hobbit News app on their iPod?" Sam exclaimed, as he bent over the glowing screen of his macbook with an incredulous look on his face.<br />
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Nica twirled her blond hair, and crinkled her nose. "I wouldn't"<br />
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Enter me, doing that thing guys do with their head when they think that they are too cool to actually say hello. That little head nod, eyes half closed. Go over. Get coffee.<br />
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Sam sighs, punching keys on his laptop. "You are not my sister"<br />
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"Hey, I don't have Hobbit News on my phone, so I guess you're down another sister"<br />
I said.<br />
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He rolls his eyes.<br />
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"Let me guess, Trey wouldn't want it either. So now I'm sister-less"<br />
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"Probably true" I consented. I feel too awake already. "Luke would probably find that ridiculous, so you're losing siblings left and right this morning. In fact, at last count, you're now an only child. How does it feel to be an only child?" I added before walking out of the room.<br />
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Just your typical Thursday morning in my family.<br />
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My friend Emma (who has a blog, which I can link, only if you're into anarchism and/or extreme homeschooling, or other non-typical teenagery stuff. Because otherwise you'd be blown out of the water) started reading The Fault In Our Stars last night. And we were texting back and forth, until the last I heard, she was tearing up at the fifth chapter. So now I'm giving her mourning space. I was such a wreck when I finished that book late one night.<br />
Heartbroken. But for anyone in that post-TFiOS haze, I promise that in a week or so after you've finished it, you'll be able to see it as one of the most beautiful books you've ever read, heartbreak aside.<br />
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Lately it seems like I've been crazy to live.<br />
Wonderful feeling, having something excite you, to be inspired, to feel passionate.<br />
I took apart one of my favorite childhood songs, and remastered it.<br />
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Katie recently explained that she loved learned but not so much school. I've been really thinking about that lately. Why do people go to school if not to learn? And yet, how much actual learning is accomplished in school? How much better is it to learn about things that you love? About things that you'll remember? It's seems a little strange that so many people spend so much time cramming information that they'll never use again into their brains.<br />
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I'm really grateful for my friends. While I've never been the girl with millions of friends, I still have a handful of friendships that I'd be lost without. Going through a little of a hard time this week when I felt cheated, and my friends were adorably indignant for my sake.<br />
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I really need to go get in the car, because we have to leave now.<br />
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Have a lovely weekend.</div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-48831906427623380492012-01-29T10:06:00.000-08:002012-01-29T10:06:37.442-08:00If a picture is worth a thousand words, then I have around 13,000,000 words on my computer.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEgfqWPH8xb0CHMjLHgcJFZjhlExi78hw6oDVvFI-n3gCF_mK5o60Qqw-sZMtcanCwhM52m9E-vOAI6Z2KiVDe-cpix3YMIHMkg2q5EN1YTcv8-7PSuJoGBDaoQ3nAn7lE4Fj-hR9YF0/s1600/bridgeheader.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEgfqWPH8xb0CHMjLHgcJFZjhlExi78hw6oDVvFI-n3gCF_mK5o60Qqw-sZMtcanCwhM52m9E-vOAI6Z2KiVDe-cpix3YMIHMkg2q5EN1YTcv8-7PSuJoGBDaoQ3nAn7lE4Fj-hR9YF0/s400/bridgeheader.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Virginia, last July.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I went through a bunch of thoughts on ways to change this blog, but decided in the end that the best thing I can do is to actually blog, and read other peoples blog. So no fancy updates right now. Although I'm going to commit to using more of my own pictures, instead of using pictures other people have taken. There are two reasons for this, number one is that I feel like I'm stealing, and number two is that I love blogs with pictures from people's actual lives.<br />
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Speaking of pictures, there are some very specific categories in the 1,000 plus photographs I've taken on my cell phone.<br />
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Outfit pictures. Still not sure why exactly, since I'm not one of those fashionable sort of girls. I pretty much just wear whatever makes me happy on any given day. Yet, I have quite the collection of these type of "Here, this is what I'm wearing today" pictures.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wvvef8Lzgk1yOF92fZ5LXMjo1VsDfIybHq_LKGPbxHmtPikMdHaoTvNwXKJ0rMh74LDucOBTM6oJO3eRW6w33mrMnlQY7UQ4rlQgTiojlokGv0blp2wxelwncW49u_pvQ7_IPWLXuEQ/s1600/IMG_1349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wvvef8Lzgk1yOF92fZ5LXMjo1VsDfIybHq_LKGPbxHmtPikMdHaoTvNwXKJ0rMh74LDucOBTM6oJO3eRW6w33mrMnlQY7UQ4rlQgTiojlokGv0blp2wxelwncW49u_pvQ7_IPWLXuEQ/s200/IMG_1349.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2C0MtS6jnJBS4OLzStQ5g9eIH38-7wWABqH-o_MluoIpaafSZxvCv4wWLi71EfGWe2D2_Ft5uJDNfsMKBiTZETjKIW6fNRMDvml4yXqWPvhaQNBTxK0BY8Fx-TTl4C35587Bu6ecsxk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.47.31+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2C0MtS6jnJBS4OLzStQ5g9eIH38-7wWABqH-o_MluoIpaafSZxvCv4wWLi71EfGWe2D2_Ft5uJDNfsMKBiTZETjKIW6fNRMDvml4yXqWPvhaQNBTxK0BY8Fx-TTl4C35587Bu6ecsxk/s200/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.47.31+AM.png" width="84" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8Xkaa0onQZ9GZKr5JLFb1NEC8PI4WFrG2wegKK6BiPXcUbd6x_muxLWa_AracP7VUZj1qCsYGq8fgcFE8MFcoOWqP8Mg3mkxqf5Dq0iwDovrvWHlevanPCR-Y2rEuwfy_pIJEn7_9Sk/s1600/IMG_1230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8Xkaa0onQZ9GZKr5JLFb1NEC8PI4WFrG2wegKK6BiPXcUbd6x_muxLWa_AracP7VUZj1qCsYGq8fgcFE8MFcoOWqP8Mg3mkxqf5Dq0iwDovrvWHlevanPCR-Y2rEuwfy_pIJEn7_9Sk/s200/IMG_1230.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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Food. Perhaps I have a little bit of an unhealthy obsession with salads in particular.</div>
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It's not that I'm the sort of person who tweets their food. It's more of this personal diary of all the pretty looking food I eat. Never claimed to be normal.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUY5PK1z3hveB0kOGKwmwFlE7bvm_In5dt8CJms2KRfw0_A7l5iRTHWxIF9neKV-EoX2CvxfyBBI7Ch-SkhUU3w2O2TAjqE431ETRqFfPluDLspWQvQ9oQjZOurub2sNc8nySHn2kbZo/s1600/IMG_1432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUY5PK1z3hveB0kOGKwmwFlE7bvm_In5dt8CJms2KRfw0_A7l5iRTHWxIF9neKV-EoX2CvxfyBBI7Ch-SkhUU3w2O2TAjqE431ETRqFfPluDLspWQvQ9oQjZOurub2sNc8nySHn2kbZo/s200/IMG_1432.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPbxKQ3wjKtymGZPuQLnqd_RSDostv51GTo8zeezaxAwipNPpfT1_JEgX1vA77Lkf_UeOZQIRFKsjcy18oayrzx_0l26Br4imfdErAkKutnghJ0I4Smdlgv87hZdo5h4ev_qoJ9x8C5M/s1600/IMG_0081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPbxKQ3wjKtymGZPuQLnqd_RSDostv51GTo8zeezaxAwipNPpfT1_JEgX1vA77Lkf_UeOZQIRFKsjcy18oayrzx_0l26Br4imfdErAkKutnghJ0I4Smdlgv87hZdo5h4ev_qoJ9x8C5M/s200/IMG_0081.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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Drinks too, I guess. *sigh* This is a little sad.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUM0a1-uEIMniL5XamczL_vEcrCA0edSswMaAI__njCoAR6UF_M53KJX8OjmuXjXpGdkSyXsjfeaTA-sRUAebfGrCRCPHRKMIC7HeqS5D0xpWkFBgXfAgI4gDEkAWMHejHsD4BlWsX5U/s1600/IMG_0574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUM0a1-uEIMniL5XamczL_vEcrCA0edSswMaAI__njCoAR6UF_M53KJX8OjmuXjXpGdkSyXsjfeaTA-sRUAebfGrCRCPHRKMIC7HeqS5D0xpWkFBgXfAgI4gDEkAWMHejHsD4BlWsX5U/s200/IMG_0574.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJ7iVoHrcKK3NQ-EUGQ46EaOo_YLtjRl_EEydBQLjMKdsfShxazgSVYg6VFA9axHvwed-sOQ_2WVLkC9ti0MqsG-zmm3bDLjwZb81FV3le_jPR7YdJdhwIiUZ8vMW4q3PWiOx8leVZBY/s1600/IMG_0450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJ7iVoHrcKK3NQ-EUGQ46EaOo_YLtjRl_EEydBQLjMKdsfShxazgSVYg6VFA9axHvwed-sOQ_2WVLkC9ti0MqsG-zmm3bDLjwZb81FV3le_jPR7YdJdhwIiUZ8vMW4q3PWiOx8leVZBY/s200/IMG_0450.jpg" width="149" /></a></div>
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Art. Mostly sketches I don't have time to scan into my computer.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGt_7Q1Z_nZZYT9acsbd9gcBbsfgelSGRHuPI5aVEzdbJjl7AHwLcQo7cupPMQ1xauwMC0PTFGcVzzASxM4BQ-SmdP4WAz4KyJ_Zz6SHE0n10XXmznJvqRNXou1LOs2nS_37jKnwU7VA/s1600/IMG_0202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGt_7Q1Z_nZZYT9acsbd9gcBbsfgelSGRHuPI5aVEzdbJjl7AHwLcQo7cupPMQ1xauwMC0PTFGcVzzASxM4BQ-SmdP4WAz4KyJ_Zz6SHE0n10XXmznJvqRNXou1LOs2nS_37jKnwU7VA/s200/IMG_0202.jpg" width="149" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gSsoItNdwD9xR-soerNoz1t3iTsbqn-2x4Tt-hj3w8NP3eAGZwmaFPbNhK1TQyJPra9Ib8aW_1ohmF1egNBMAN3j3grBvy1slJS965hju49oobc_9HCzSQ5lAKkRCbdoZPUyVnA62wY/s1600/IMG_0389.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gSsoItNdwD9xR-soerNoz1t3iTsbqn-2x4Tt-hj3w8NP3eAGZwmaFPbNhK1TQyJPra9Ib8aW_1ohmF1egNBMAN3j3grBvy1slJS965hju49oobc_9HCzSQ5lAKkRCbdoZPUyVnA62wY/s200/IMG_0389.jpg" width="149" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPcbmNsf4ClRweepq_YiZGPViuV2JS2la40TYcEIV0841vaCC13M3SlRLjh3gSY8a1bBL_XLStJ6krCRu1Z-MKbll35tsCiiYtTuF9Md5tC9G5MCvvLku4K3srIRXUX6OxlduPLBcFhA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.36.36+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPcbmNsf4ClRweepq_YiZGPViuV2JS2la40TYcEIV0841vaCC13M3SlRLjh3gSY8a1bBL_XLStJ6krCRu1Z-MKbll35tsCiiYtTuF9Md5tC9G5MCvvLku4K3srIRXUX6OxlduPLBcFhA/s200/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.36.36+AM.png" width="145" /></a></div>
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Old pictures that I've taken pictures of.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqwLTxTjOMB1zVvN_EMJ6SuWZrhtjwYtmmVyP6CDVnsic2gClGHPVG0BORjiFwlV_bH4ru56IAkgQH1Pe6M_SN37-2DMdSZRmnAie72j6c49EsAGsZ_EP57bMqazWh6pFIU1eKxHeK_I/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.45.20+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqwLTxTjOMB1zVvN_EMJ6SuWZrhtjwYtmmVyP6CDVnsic2gClGHPVG0BORjiFwlV_bH4ru56IAkgQH1Pe6M_SN37-2DMdSZRmnAie72j6c49EsAGsZ_EP57bMqazWh6pFIU1eKxHeK_I/s200/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.45.20+AM.png" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihinPGFaTL1dRgnVS6vpjPj56HeMTZnVwPp6di7EeBXxsrTFRMHZWWiMr-3ZQB3TIA-O6C8lPxxLJloR3xdELM0aNGsOqbhHIY0GxublOaDztOjgwln6JOwhPLRyZ8-j65wsPUmqm4Tlw/s1600/IMG_1292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihinPGFaTL1dRgnVS6vpjPj56HeMTZnVwPp6di7EeBXxsrTFRMHZWWiMr-3ZQB3TIA-O6C8lPxxLJloR3xdELM0aNGsOqbhHIY0GxublOaDztOjgwln6JOwhPLRyZ8-j65wsPUmqm4Tlw/s200/IMG_1292.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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Pictures with people. Lots of them. More than I could possibly post. Here is two of them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWy-twNeMTsU6ja9Gf6wUwhS01w_BdAcyOMkkNlKjM_RAsA2pMlRJAH5vek_W_7st6jbNMEbfSdxYZ1MLRXWxPYyhVSkzP5dkmZEhox9pLM5KRU7bqp0KB8blWO_4kJ3IA-tYHrS-jHUc/s1600/IMG_0868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWy-twNeMTsU6ja9Gf6wUwhS01w_BdAcyOMkkNlKjM_RAsA2pMlRJAH5vek_W_7st6jbNMEbfSdxYZ1MLRXWxPYyhVSkzP5dkmZEhox9pLM5KRU7bqp0KB8blWO_4kJ3IA-tYHrS-jHUc/s200/IMG_0868.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlU6cuFkPGBluBm60kBqKYuDHHFPlKBybUg_-MgM5xmnDqdsL6CjiYXpjgIHAPRPkleRh_U9iy-LV44cGhEi5IS0d2WWNcZJyfovIJNiZGFZ3YfaUuAeERDrDPvd-tJk8Ce1DmsJFndQM/s1600/Image+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlU6cuFkPGBluBm60kBqKYuDHHFPlKBybUg_-MgM5xmnDqdsL6CjiYXpjgIHAPRPkleRh_U9iy-LV44cGhEi5IS0d2WWNcZJyfovIJNiZGFZ3YfaUuAeERDrDPvd-tJk8Ce1DmsJFndQM/s200/Image+6.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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Photographs that show what I'm up to in a moment of time.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdg72RWpLJ4PqYwuLIc_sbyNZvjSV4RiC4iGZw0gLhvPcsKLXqJqi0qe57wk4-3ED_OuuZjW50Wo4iMIgUN_AIXJ60O4gTJP4_EUjvsPBrf07wd5lvu_Lf8uvX_1wOlwlfrbs2aa6Nwfk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.53.32+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdg72RWpLJ4PqYwuLIc_sbyNZvjSV4RiC4iGZw0gLhvPcsKLXqJqi0qe57wk4-3ED_OuuZjW50Wo4iMIgUN_AIXJ60O4gTJP4_EUjvsPBrf07wd5lvu_Lf8uvX_1wOlwlfrbs2aa6Nwfk/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.53.32+AM.png" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_G_hgROUzFknC-ufiHTI1ffvzKXcVfQww9O46rwGGUtTseTNzkvMRStujuflsDqsh8_UHZS4IxRaMyJsfkOwcs1VvFtWskSjrnBPyRtYPWYwtU_cArbXNyF12jUuAOzFzfIM1r8weeuo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.53.56+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_G_hgROUzFknC-ufiHTI1ffvzKXcVfQww9O46rwGGUtTseTNzkvMRStujuflsDqsh8_UHZS4IxRaMyJsfkOwcs1VvFtWskSjrnBPyRtYPWYwtU_cArbXNyF12jUuAOzFzfIM1r8weeuo/s200/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.53.56+AM.png" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajlq66VkAwAwOJiA-NB-j2jwl1VTevyAkZxzBZ1otYQHiFj17mAprv1Rk1ZXLlkjv1by-XKSodcTD9y2vHRlYOToJC9wvLUGGMIuBYb_-uvSRQAbqw_EjfHBiWoUz6dpes6CCdtuc03I/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.55.05+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajlq66VkAwAwOJiA-NB-j2jwl1VTevyAkZxzBZ1otYQHiFj17mAprv1Rk1ZXLlkjv1by-XKSodcTD9y2vHRlYOToJC9wvLUGGMIuBYb_-uvSRQAbqw_EjfHBiWoUz6dpes6CCdtuc03I/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-01-29+at+11.55.05+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, there, you've had a glimpse of my life. It's so much easier documenting everything with pictures. I'd be really interested if any of you want to write a similar post, link it in the comments and I'll edit it into this post.</div>
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Happy Sunday Afternoon.</div>
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<br /></div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-76710949012083870962011-12-26T16:56:00.000-08:002011-12-26T16:56:54.549-08:00Truth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://nahkostinya.tumblr.com/post/14741628586" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Nt_NOzVSw68/TvkXcc6Ye8I/AAAAAAAACD8/hw8A7IioZoA/s400/tumblr_lwpkgreTIB1r5ssqlo1_500.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="quoteText" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;">"The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but<br />shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more,<br />but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and<br />smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees<br />but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more<br />problems, more medicine, but less wellness.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="quoteText" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="quoteText" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;">We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little,<br />drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too<br />little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our<br />possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and<br />hate too often.<br /><br />We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to<br />life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but<br />have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer<br />space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.<br /><br />We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom,<br />but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but<br />accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more<br />computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we<br />communicate less and less.<br /><br />These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small<br />character, steep profits and shallow relationships.<br /><br />These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but<br />broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway<br />morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything<br />from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the<br />showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can<br />bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share<br />this insight, or to just hit delete...<br /><br />Remember, to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not<br />going to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks<br />up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave<br />your side.<br /><br />Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the<br />only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.<br /><br />Remember, to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most<br />of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from<br />deep inside of you.<br /><br />Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person might<br />not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to<br />share the precious thoughts in your mind."</span> — Bob Mooreshead</span></div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-82293351701113352942011-12-15T10:33:00.000-08:002012-01-29T10:22:16.490-08:00Believe in me, because I don't believe in anything.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit goes to my brilliant nine year old sister Nica.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6a007f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got till it's gone" </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #42004b; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px;"><b>The Counting Crows have been there for me for a long while. </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember being at my Aunt's wedding, ten years old, junior bridesmaid in a silk gown, belting "Big Yellow Taxi" out with all my might. It was a ridiculous song to sing at a wedding, one so completely out of context that I found it oddly suitable. Of course, I knew very few accurate lyrics, so I improvised where needed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ironically enough, the same song played overhead while I sat across from a gorgeous guy of eighteen, with eyes the color of water on a tropical vacation flyer, and a smile that could melt gold. He, whom had pursued me with a comfortable amount of attention. He whom I had firmly ignored, not allowed a place in my head, let alone my heart. This particular moment, he was telling me about his new girlfriend. I nodded enthusiastically, giving the appropriate "She's lucky". Then I noticed the music and I closed my eyes and whispered "I love Counting Crows". He looked up from studying the table and I said a quick something to the effect of never mind. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Take a holiday in Spain. Drink my worries down the drain, fly away to somewhere new"</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The song "Holiday in Spain" reminds me of vacations with my Dad. Maybe it has to do with their best album being named "August and Everything After" but the Crows have always reminded me of Autumn, and with autumn, consequently camping trips. Bumping along the highway sitting in the van next to my Dad while he played songs my mother would have considered inappropriate. Apples, bonfires, chilly air, flame colored leaves. And the Counting Crows. I suppose this song is an odd one to have remind you of a dad, the drinking and suggestiveness of it would imply so. But maybe it has to do with that time when I got sick from overdosing on sugar and my Dad left his friends and card table to come lie under the stars talking with me and my younger brother. I only half minded the Tequila breath. My Dad has the ability to make anything better. Even though I am past the phase where he is flawless, I still firmly insist he has the power to right a great amount of wrong. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; letter-spacing: 0px;">"The smell of hospitals in winter and the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters but no pearls"</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are those months and years that go on and on and you find yourself searching for meaning in life's madness, grasping at what little hope you can find in those long and gray days. A Long December is about that feeling. Tired, worn down and stretched out. But hopeful of a brighter year coming. Decembers are always like that, at least for me. They give you a chance to review the year, and set goals for the next. The holidays can be either intensely lonely or incredibly exhausting. Sitting on public places during the holidays, slowly drinking coffee and watching people run around in their costs, with agendas, walking home from the train with briefcases, teenagers with dark circles under their eyes due to staying up all night cramming for finals. The hopeful looks on the faces of children. It's not such a bad month. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Every night these silhouettes appear above my head. Little angels of the silences climb into my bed"</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There's a funny feeling as the clock strikes midnight and you find yourself awake. Some times tears find you when you least expect it. The moon shines down into my bedroom from the picture window, and my breath is ragged with emotions that will never find their way out of the maze inside of my head. Why does it seem like everything you ever worried about hits you when your house it quiet and you have nothing but the clicking of the ceiling fan's gentle clicking to remind you that you can actually hear. The faces of people I have loved and lost are a carousel in my imagination. I wiggle my toes,cans see the garish Christmas lights outside the window. Here it is, December fourteenth, for a few more minutes at least, and we haven't had an inch of snow in Chicago. Oh great, here, I'll be up another hour at least contemplating global warming and green house gases. I am an insufferable insomniac. Have been for years. Used to sit in a chair and count how many times the streetlights flickered. That's the funny thing though, this near the city it's never really dark outside. The sky has this orangish cast from all the city lights that are still glowing. This isn't the way to stay awake all night. I much prefer walking down to the lake, or a river at least, listening to street musicians, and seeing my breath in the chilly December night air. I like dancing along brick paths, and watching the water reflect things. But that isn't an option on most nights. Instead I'm locked here in my bedroom with the ghosts of yesterday. Staring at the ceiling, with all these voices tumbling around in my head. Ask my best friend, I never make sense at night. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Angels of The Silences is a ballad for all those nights I've been up, not certain what I'm doing, but definitely not sleeping. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; letter-spacing: 0px;">What do you think, should I write more music memory essays?</span></div>
</div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-25437012996086323322011-12-10T21:19:00.001-08:002011-12-10T22:05:19.811-08:00Guess this is growing up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Work, this morning. Up at six, with far too little caffeine. The sun rising, all reds, oranges and blue, through the trees, sprinkled with a lousy covering of snow, barely an inch to be generous. Either I magically became a wimp over the summer, or it was cold outside. Difficult to tell sometimes, you know? The drive was quiet, and beautiful too. Can't explain why I didn't turn up music. Sometimes it's nice to allow yourself a moment of peace. Seems like lately all that's been coming into my brain is more and more information with less and less time to fully process it. I'm like a child, in a way. Waking up on Monday, sure of my future status in the New York City ballet, then deciding before lunch that an English teacher at Yale would be preferable. Suppose it would be only fair to be honest. I don't know where I am going. Barely figured out who I am, for that matter, and they want answers already.<br />
<br />
That is not the entire truth, come to think of it. I know where I want to go. I want to move far away from these subdivisions, and strip malls. Somewhere that I do not know roads naturally, some place I could rediscover for myself. The realist inside my head whispers that all places are essentially the same, and while I know that has some truth, it still leads me to pursue this train of thought with a passion.<br />
<br />
They built a water tower near the office. Tried to make it look like an old Lighthouse. It's the most pitiful thing you could ever see, really. Chicago is land locked, you know? And though you can see the Willis/Sears tower from there, and the lake isn't all that faraway, it's about as nautical as the Sahara.<br />
<br />
There are younger teenagers at work, in the hallways, awkwardly shuffling to their appointments, their parents sitting in the waiting room, with their copies of People Magazine or Golfer's Digest, or whatever sort of inferior reading material lies around on the table out there. If it were me, I would fill all of those sorts of waiting places with books about a million different topics, something would be bound to fascinating to someone. <br />
<br />
Wonder how they would see me. Just a short girl, with ordinary brown eyes and ordinary brown hair, dark circles under her eyes, too pale skin, and a small smile, bending over file cabinets in a much too large sweater, my fingers cold and blue in the florescent lighting.<br />
Doubt they would care.<br />
<br />
The funniest thing happened though, I was getting some papers from the manager's office, and I had the huge box halfway into the hall. Some teenagers passed, maybe a year or two younger than me, off to the consultation room. And something shocked me of out the blue.<br />
I'm no longer one of them really. There was a sensation that I had crossed a barrier of no return. In a state of panic, I attempted to recall the last time I engaged in a teenagerly conversation or act. Even with my friends, we act so old, our conversations are nothing like those that I overhear.<br />
<br />
It is true, I have never been the epitome of normalcy for the fact, either. So it's hard to say for certain whether or not I can judge my growing up based on those around me.<br />
<br />
But I looked at a Christmas card from Freshman year. A friend, my Dad, and I were compared it with our card from this year. And I looked at that dorky girl, with that ridiculous look on her face (I'd like to believe it was just an awkward phase and I'm more attractive than that now, but it might be wishful thinking), and think to myself:<br />
"Who the hell is she?"<br />
<br />
Myself, now, today, and the girl in that photo have entirely different views. We want different things. Have different relationships. Care about opposite things.<br />
Our whole basis of what life means is so polar, that it's hard to see where the shifting happened.<br />
<br />
Some things are definitely for the better. Others are debatably worse. I'm a lot less shocked by things then I was then, but in turn I'm also a lot less phased by things.<br />
<br />
(Side note, I'm a much better writer than her, don't you dare go into the blog archives to the dark ages)<br />
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And worst of all, there have been people, things and dreams I've had to toss to the wind.<br />
Life is just a revolving door, bringing people and adventure in and out of your particular window of life at an alarmingly fast rate. You need to learn to love without being shattered when you lose. You need to cherish every single moment you're given.<br />
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So I'm going to be in the now. Because I want twenty-five year old me to be able to look back and say "Hey, I was on the right track" when she thinks about me.<br />
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Just some very long winded thoughts.<br />
<br /></div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-21370557041133754032011-11-18T20:49:00.001-08:002011-11-18T21:22:20.653-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: small;"><b>They are mostly random things that I've found myself </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> November</span></b>. I'm sorry, but I have such an unrequited love for this month. Everything about it is mostly wonderful The last few weeks to skate before snow comes, my favorite chill holiday, school finds it's rhythm. Yeah.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Black Nylons.</span></b> Holy heck, so fun to wear with pretty much anything. Rip 'em up, and it's classic rocker, or wear them in tact, and they're just this classy touch. Pairing them with goth victorian boots is the best.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Coconut anything, especially milk.</span></b> Admittedly, when my Mom started introducing it, I was hesitant. I believe last weekend I had coconut milk egg nog, coconut milk yogurt, and coconut milk itself as well. Crazy, but the stuff is great, with half the calories of regular whole milk.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6H_Fym9XxIv8tPHbEMrcJvUV7srvdksZumL9_SBGApwIhkNmHfoVc8uxSsGlAiT8s0btEQcNf7YC2B9y7NSNYwEyZUMijJYuZKbPkzGRYJcIVa1Fxnd5GR6kPAAjzG7nRAEw05-qE4Q/s1600/Nike%252520Blazer%252520High%25252009%252520ND%252520Caterpillar%252520Dark%252520Purple%252520Suede%252520White_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6H_Fym9XxIv8tPHbEMrcJvUV7srvdksZumL9_SBGApwIhkNmHfoVc8uxSsGlAiT8s0btEQcNf7YC2B9y7NSNYwEyZUMijJYuZKbPkzGRYJcIVa1Fxnd5GR6kPAAjzG7nRAEw05-qE4Q/s320/Nike%252520Blazer%252520High%25252009%252520ND%252520Caterpillar%252520Dark%252520Purple%252520Suede%252520White_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Anything that's the color plum</span></b>. From flowers, to sweaters, to paintings, this is my new favorite color.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Oscar Wilde quotes</span></b>. He was a bloody genius, and pretty much everything he ever wrote nspires me. You can read some quotes by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/3565.Oscar_Wilde">clicking here,</a> but this one is a favorite:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a word of what I am saying" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Story of my life.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Bass guitar</span></b>, which always has inspired me, but especially of late. I'm bribing myself to get a new one if I can get X amount of projects done by the end of the month, including finishing my NaNoWriMo novel.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Umphrey's McGee, Phish, Grateful Dead, and other jam bands.</span></b> They are the perfect thing for this time of year. I know I'll look back at this month and remember it based on what I was listening to at the time, like last December I was on a Killers kick. The song <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64J8DpW5emY">Rocker</a>, by Umphrey's is especially wonderful, because I love the guitar riffs. And also, Fleet Foxes are amazing, and I'm learning to play their song <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9i66xCyiYNU">Battery Kinzie.</a> Oh, and Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" is stuck in my head.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>So, what are some of your obsessions of late?</b></span></div>
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</div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2613604658358161577.post-33031782985202160002011-11-10T14:40:00.001-08:002011-11-10T14:46:51.008-08:00Me? A music journalist? Ahahaha... right.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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SO you may be wondering where I've been. In fact, I can see all of you, with scowls on your faces, shaking your fingers in stern admonition.<br />
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But I have a good excuse! Really, I do.<br />
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Other than writing 18,500 words in the past 10 days, and school, and co-writing songs with my best friend, I've also started a music blogging stint.<br />
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If I may be so pretentious as to suppose I am missed, I highly recommend reading my latest music journalism endeavors, by clicking <a href="http://bandaidrecords.com/category/jill-storm/">this link here</a>.<br />
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Hope all is well with all your lives, precious people.<br />
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<br /></div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03141941816962453394noreply@blogger.com5