Tag Archives: personal

On Being Bold

Posted on by
3

The first thing i ever wanted to be when i grew up was a dolphin trainer. Who also wrote books. And sang songs. And invented things.

The hybrid of this all in my imagination looked like this: i was the musical star of the Sea World dolphin show, using my inventions to train dolphins in singing along. And then i’d write of adventures in books with plots that suspiciously resembled Harry Potter, but with dolphins.

Lots of social skills as Harry Potter for Halloween, circa third grade.

Lots of social skills as Harry Potter for Halloween, circa third grade.

The hybrid of all of this in reality looked like this: a large cardboard box in the corner of my room overflowing with “inventor-y stuff” (matchbox cars, duct tape). As my friend Becca so fondly recalls, i had a plastic toy dolphin named “Trixie” because she did tricks. (Becca will also tell you Trixie’s tricks were a big flop, but that never stopped me from trying). I actually went pretty far with the singing gig – two years of voice lessons and five years of more choir than anyone with any sense of social skills should hope to take. (Actually, i loved choir, but that’s not the point. I still have no social skills.)

But what has outlasted even my tacky-ass black chorus dress and books of Italian arias is the writing. The desire to write books, perhaps without Trixie-as-Harry-Potter plotlines, remains central to my ten-year plan. It’s kind of why i keep a blog: to keep in practice, to keep writing. To preserve material for my someday egocentric and totally indulgent memoir about my romp through a historically women’s college and semester mucking about Europe.

But if i’m honest with myself, my writing about traveling is not the substantial stuff. It’s tremendously fun, and i know come next year when i have the missing-Edinburgh-blues i will be grateful for making the effort to memorialize what i have experienced. And i love travel writing best of all for keeping in touch with neighbors-as-good-as-kin, my parents, my friends back home.

The substantial stuff, though, that’s what i want to do. I remember telling my best friend in high school i wanted to write a classic – a Tolstoy, a Fitzgerald. She facetiously (and rightly) pointed out that no one sets out to Write a Classic. I look back now with a grain more of humility and heartily agree: people write what is meaningful and beautiful to them, and the power that comes from such truth-telling is what defines a classic.

I’m pretty sure i’m never going to write a War and Peace, as much as my self-important teen self may have wanted to. But i do think it is time for me to truly start embracing that fundamental asset i have seen in all the Good and Great Books i have read, from John Green’s teen fiction to my beloved Toni Morrison’s work.

I have to be bolder, take the risks that terrify me with my naked honesty. This doesn’t make me a Phenomenal Writer – it doesn’t even make me a great writer. It means i am writing, truly and deeply, from my gut. And the best i can hope for is that my vulnerability and lexical expression communicates those questions and feelings with authenticity.

So that is what i’ve done.

Tomorrow, friends and family and good-as-kin-neighbors, i have some exciting and anxiety-inducing and wonderful news to share. I hope you’ll come back to read about it, and i hope it doesn’t flop quite the way Trixie used to.

And, hey, even if it does, i’ll just keep trying.

—

current jam: ‘san francisco’ the mowgli’s (thanks, radha!) 

best thing: #talkingtaboo.

also: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM, YOU’RE THE GREATEST. Thanks for the dolphin wallpaper and putting up with my “dolphin call” for the whole of second grade.

So, Paris.

Posted on by
Reply

Trying to write about the enamor i now feel for Paris is like trying to make Michelangelo’s Pièta out of play-doh. What does a writer say about the City of L’amour that has not yet been said?

Paris has lived in my mind for so long; the rewinds and re-watches of my favorite Disney, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, instilled a love of the grandiose cathedral from a wee age. In eighth grade i enrolled in my first French class with the intent of being able to speak the language in African countries once colonized by the French. I didn’t expect to also fall madly in love with the idea of Paris, but suddenly i had three Eiffel Tower keychains and a calendar of photographs along the Seine.

In my tummy-knotted waiting for J, i had hardly stopped to consider the impending realization of my eighth-grade dreams. The guidebooks were tabbed, playlists made, but the reality wasn’t there.

Until i caught my first glimpse of Montmartre’s winding alleyways. Then, i was there. I was Audrey Hepburn in white sunglasses, strolling along the Seine. I was every line from Moulin Rouge! singing from a red windmill. I was my mother in her movie-star black coat, i was thirteen and practicing: Bonjour, ça va? I was every writer who’d been intoxicated by the river, every dreamer who had wished under the Parisian sky. It met and exceeded my every expectation.

J called it my "Paris Face," taken at our first meal upon our (late evening) arrival!

J called it my “Paris Face,” taken at our first meal upon our (late evening) arrival!

J and i are back in Edinburgh now, with his return ticket to the states looming over our vin du Paris grins with an increasingly ominous tune. There will (wayyy) be more blogging on and photos of Paris (and London and Edinburgh!) soon, but for now i’m going to embrace un joie de vivre and be present in the non-blogging real world. Thanks for coming along for the ride!

Day one: first photo on the Seine riverbank!

Day one: first photo on the Seine riverbank!

—

current jam: ‘bells of notre dame’ hunchback of notre dame soundtrack; no shame.

best thing: paris!

Erratic.

Posted on by
1

The film i had to watch for class this week was so utterly dull i spent the majority of it painting my nails a voracious shade of magenta. They’ve chipped so i re-did them this morning, my hands shaking.

I have so much adrenaline in me right now, i’m not sure i’d pass a drug test. Pugs not drugs. But, like, really. I made my coffee extra weak this morning and everything. With two dollops of milk. Two!

Two essays have been vanquished; the last stands some 1200 words in and a very thorough outline to the finish. Frankly, i just don’t want to talk about the male gaze in cinema right now. Any other time, gender politics and art rank in my top-five-favorite things to chat about. Not now. So the cursor blinks maniacally at me on the screen. Taunting my out-of-character inability to focus. In my head it’s the beat of a bass drum: thum, thum, thum.

It’s a proper Edinburgh day: miserable and misty and reeking of rain. I keep toying with the cord of my curling iron, wondering if it’s worth it. Nothing can ruin a bouffant like side-lining rain. No better way to pass time than trying to ensure my lion’s mane looks decent.

My coffee mugs need washing. So does my hair. When i know i will be an erratic mess of non-drug-induced adrenaline, i make a tight schedule for myself the day before: not a moment before nine-thirty, awake. Go to the library, return books. Vacuum. Re-arrange posters. First cup of coffee. Make it last. Wait until after his arrival call around noon from Amsterdam before showering.

Every hour that passes is like a mile in a marathon. All i can do is calculate in my head the distance traveled in relation to the minutes it took to travel them. How many things can i fit in the waiting minutes, the minutes that crush me with their not-yet-itis?

I made guacamole yesterday, with a mojito chicken reprise. Both were a little heavy on the coriander. (I’d scheduled an extra thirty seconds for plucking herbs, so as to make the minute stretch longer). Still, cooking is a work in progress. I’ve dreamed up a new recipe for mac & cheese. Bookmarked some other salad concoctions i hope to try soon.

My pinker-than-pink nails are drumming to the imaginary beat of my aching cursor. Thum. Thum. Thum. Waiting is not my strong suit – it never has been. In the time before my driver’s license, i’d pace outside my mother’s office. Listen to her tap-tap-tapping on the computer, every tap an agonizing delay to my compulsive five-minutes-early reputation. We’d yell at each other like no other time, her furious at my inability to relax until arrived, me incredulous that the world did not move at five-minutes-early-everywhere speed.

I’d like to think i’ve gotten a bit better. Having my own means of transport certainly helped. But on days like today, i’m fourteen and a hypoglycemic meltdown all over again. But there’s no parent to pester to move faster. Only the proverbial clock, the unmerciful slowness of time that is in the in-betweens.

4 hours, 30 mintues. I can do this.

—

current jam: ‘you got what i need’ joshua radin. soothing music to soothe the drums and drones.

best thing: 800 words remain. 800 words can fill an hour, right?

Répéter: Trois Jours.

Posted on by
Reply

I should be writing my paper on sexuality and nationalism.

I’ve spent my afternoon making spinach-and-artichoke dip for my mojito chicken nacho dinner tonight. (The whole cooking thing? Yeah, it’s taking off with frightening fast elevation.  I think i’ve watched three or four hours worth of Sorted videos in the last two days alone). Before that, there was a stroll around The Meadows and the library under the ruse of “returning my books.”

You get the idea.

My restlessness is not unfounded, if resiliently unproductive. In a mere three days (THREE DAYS) J will be here for his spring break. I can’t breathe, i can’t focus, and i certainly cannot think about anything else (much less worrying over the intersection of sexuality and nationalism in a 2500 word essay).

So here am i, procrastinating in my most favorite way. Writing to you. My current second-favorite means of not-doing-homework is reading up on restaurants in Paris and London, where we’ll visit in the twelve days J is here. (If you have suggestions, please do leave them in the comments!)

As if seeing him were not enough, i’m finally realizing my thirteen-year-old dream of scaling the Eiffel Tower and downing more wine and cheese than i can imagine. Maybe the wine part wasn’t so influential in my eighth-grade-doodles. Whatever. Je voudrais deux baguettes, s’il-vous-plaît, i practice. Mademoiselle Kelly would be proud. I’ve come two inches in my French grammar since my middle school days. But i can rock the all-black-clothing with pouty-red-lipstick look like Amélie personally loaned me her wardrobe. My sense of fashion has certainly progressed since then. 

I have a running playlist of the strangest juxtapositions: Zac Brown Band (for him), Edith Piaf (for Paris), and the Hunchback of Notre Dame (for the guise of focusing, the reality of pretending to be Esmeralda in the famous cathédrale). Rinse, remix, repeat.

Rinse, remix, repeat. Mojito chicken, library, repeat. Three days, three days, three days.

—

current jam: ‘la vie en rose’ édith piaf.

best thing: affordable airlines.

Of Blossoms & Boats: Van Gogh at the Hermitage.

Posted on by
1

Refreshed from our wine-and-cheese induced sleep, Abby and i awoke in Amsterdam ready to brave the cold and wanting to explore. After a delicious breakfast at the hotel (have i mentioned the cappuccino machine?) we took a gander about the southern canal/De Pijp neighborhood, drinking in the quaint little bridges and houses stacked against each other.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Some ten minutes away was our destination: The Hermitage Museum. Since the Van Gogh Museum is presently undergoing renovations, the bulk of their collection is temporarily housed here. I’d been waiting to see this exhibit really since my 12th-grade AP Art History class, when i’d first really studied Vincent.

It was sublime. Is there really any other word for visiting with Van Gogh’s work?

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Unfortunately, photography was strictly forbidden, so i have no photos to share of the actual exhibit. In some ways, i find restrictions like this liberating because it means i’m truly present with the art instead of constantly fiddling with the shutter speed on my Olympus.

Some of my favorite things we saw, though, were not the most famous members of the collection (like Wheat Field with Crows, though that was transcendent). There was a whole section devoted to Van Gogh’s study of Japanese prints, and his painted recreations of some of the prints in his own collection. To see how these pieces really shaped Van Gogh’s perspective as an artist in his formative years was really cool – especially the harsh angles and vibrant colors.

But lest we forget, the more famous works were also amazing to see. I hadn’t known that Almond Blossoms was painted for Vincent’s newborn nephew. Somehow, this idea that the blossoms were meant to celebrate new life made this work all the more endearing.

And the greens! Oh, the greens! I’ve always been enchanted by Bedroom at Arles­ and its quirky, incandescent spirit (my Art History teacher said once he always felt like the chairs were about to start dancing around the room). But it is even more lively in person – the dark patches outlining the bed and making up the floor are such rich tones of emerald that they illuminate the whole work. I was utterly intoxicated by the greens – the fishing boats at Saint-Marie series had me entranced.

VanGogh_Bedroom_Arles

Bedroom in Arles, 1888.

almond-blossom

Almond Blossoms, 1890.

Fishing Boats at Sea, 1888. (I bought this one on a postcard!)

Fishing Boats at Sea, 1888. (I bought this one on a postcard!)

Some two hours later, we exited the gift shop (postcards in hand, of course) and made our way to Kerkestraat for the (aforewrittenabout) bike tour! Our afternoon was thus consumed by exquisite art and wheeling about town – what more could you want from a long weekend in Amsterdam, really?

That was really the bulk of our first day; the cold was too potent to spend too much time out with the sun going down. We returned to our new favorite bar/café, Onder de Ooivaar, for yet another round of wine and cheese. The next day promised a tour of the Anne Frank House, eating our way through the Albert Cuyp Market, and GIANT YELLOW wooden shoes!

—

current jam: ’tout doucement’ feist.

best thing: ravioli.

of note: photos of van gogh’s paintings from here. 

For My Mother:

Posted on by
3

[Groupon UK is running a contest wherein entrants write a blog post about their perfect gift idea – either for themselves, or someone else - this Valentine's Day. This is my entry!]

I was in the fourth grade when she first left the country. I remember the gifts she brought back – small, plastic figurines of princesses with swords at their hips and knights mounted on horses. It was the peak of my fantastical stories age when i spent hours crafting intricate narratives against the backdrop of my waterfall Playmobile set. Her gifts were the perfect addition to my cast of characters: feisty female leads with dashing love interests played by an assortment of stuffed animals.

My mother has always ensured i live a charmed life. She left the country for the first time in her thirties. I was fourteen when we boarded the plane for Uganda.

Her friend’s book club had booked a trip to Paris and an extra spot was vacant. My mother purchased this exquisite, calf-length black coat for the occasion. The collar was faux fur, and i thought she looked like a movie star from the 1930s. Paris is cold in February, she told me then.

Edinburgh is too.

At the age of twenty, i’ve been given the best gifts i could ever ask for. Love in my life, warms homes, stamped passport, recipes for fried chicken. There’s not much more i could ask for than that. My mother was my gateway into the world, and she has opened innumerable doors since i came through.

When we’d opened our action figures, she told me how the street she’d found them on was like Diagon Alley. Like magic made it appear, cobblestone-covered and impossible to find again. She talked and talked, how the windows in Notre Dame dimmed in the rain but dazzled in the sun. Chirping her Bonjour’s and reminiscing the wine, i drank in her memories like the stories she’d given me bound in books.

It was her first and only time to Paris. We’ve traveled together across East and West Africa, hearts full with adventure and simplicity and constancy. But it’s been some time since my mother has traveled abroad. I can hear little aches in her voice when i tell her how spellbound i am with the red letter-boxes on the streets.

There are many things i wish i could give my mother in return for what she has given me. But a parent’s love is a kind of gift that i, even in my neurotic-must-repay mindset, can never hope to give back in equal measure.

If i could, on Valentine’s Day i would give her is a chance to fall in love with Europe all over again. To visit me, in Edinburgh, and to see why it is that Scotland possess its own kind of magic. I would take her to St. Margaret’s chapel in the Edinburgh castle, because i know she’d like that the oldest building in Edinburgh was built to honor a holy woman. We would eat mussels along the coast and drink in salt air with our wine. She’d tell me about her father and his shrimp boat, and about growing up along an oceanside river. I’d tuck my chin into my folded-up knees and soak in her stories, feeling and looking no different than from when i was ten and she first told me about Paris.

I would show her Edinburgh’s own kind of Diagon Alleys and histories of princesses with swords at the hip. I’d show her to see how her piles of storybooks and memories of Paris have woven in my imagination seeds for endless possibilities, endless adventures.

It’s a gift i wish, so much, that i could give. But in the stead of taking her to the foot of Arthur’s Seat i send pictures. There are long talks on Skype. Some days, when i miss her warmth and her storytelling most acutely, i remember her movie-star black coat and the stories she told, giving a prayer of thanks for the gift of a mother i have been given.

loveforshopping_de

—

current jam: ‘oh my sweet carolina (live)’ zac brown band.

best thing: moms.

Home to Home.

Posted on by
Reply

Tomorrow marks my first full week away from North Carolina, though the days that have comprised this seven-fold seem of the substance of longer stuff. A friend of mine, who is always rife with clever sayings and perfectly-timed quips, once remarked that “my days are long, but my weeks are short.” I’ve never felt there was more truth to this statement than when the semester commences.

In the span of these seven days my mother and i drove some 800 miles up I-81 to get to my beloved Mount Holyoke, hauled and moved and otherwise shoved all of my belongings into my new room, convocation occurred, classes started, and i had my first meeting for my fall internship with Women’s Voices Worldwide. Needless to say, the mere spewing out  of my schedule alone has me winded!

The drive was really splendid – for once, no crashing thunderstorms in Southern Pennsylvania to keep us on our driving toes. We discovered a fabulous new lunching spot outside of Charlottesville, VA, called the Blue Mountain Brewery (i highly recommend the cheese plate!) and – despite some minor undercarriage faults – mom came to the rescue in every hairy situation.

the last bojangles for a long while!

mom the mechanic extraordinaire!

the view from our outdoor table at the brewery was exquisite!

…but not even the view was as marvelous as the cheese.

The room, too, is fully lived in now; the posters are hung, spaces left on cork boards for more postcards (ahem!), and the books waiting to be read as the semester unfolds. The Roommate and i are back exactly where we left of – practically married and loving every minute. Making a space our own is always such fun – and this year proved no exception!

from “the waking” by theodore roethke

 Life back home – home here, not home there – is really good. Steady. Known. I’m settling back into the comfort of the anticipated – junior year is, truly, an unexpectedly marked change. My metaphorical baby fat has finally been shed and muscle memory is setting in.  It’s going to be a full semester, for certain, but the robustness of it i think is what will make it worthwhile!

—

current jam: ‘she walks right though me’ alex day

best thing: michelle obama.

The Comeback.

Posted on by
1

So i’ve been away awhile, and rather unexpectedly. I do keep this blog first for myself, but it is always pleasantly surprising to me when people, via the internet or human contact, express concern that i haven’t been writing. I appreciate this more than i can say – i live to write, so knowing that in some small way you, dearest reader, at minimum bother perusing my words is a treasured gift. But i also forget sometimes that writing, though its roots may be as a discipline for myself, once released doesn’t belong to me so much any longer. And i haven’t been writing here. I don’t apologize for this, because i needed what i have been writing to belong only to me lately. But i have missed your insights and the small exhilaration i get from putting this out into the internet-world, and for those who have expressed concern i return with thanks.

I haven’t been writing because, well, i’ve been busy living my life. For the past two years i’ve not spent more than a month at a time in North Carolina, and because of this i haven’t really relaxed in a long, long time. Despite working, though, i have really made an effort to cleanse and sift and breathe – thus the unannounced internet hiatus. It has been most wonderful – i am blissfully, truly content where i am in ways i could never have anticipated going into this summer. And rather than broadcasting such bliss, i’ve kept it for me. Obviously it’s because you do, in fact, smell rank, and not because i’m actually a socially awkward extreme introvert who occasionally doesn’t feel the need to spell out her innermost thoughts online so as to better process such happiness. Just so we’re clear.

But! I’m back. Really. No motorcycle adventures to document (yet) but since you, apparently, find my scrawls of interest i’ll give you a brief run-down of all that has been going on in the world of lizzie mcmizzie since last we spoke (or, rather, i pontificated and you stared at your illuminated screen in the dark of a 3 am college dorm room).With no further thus ado, i therefore give you:

The 5 Utterly Mundane and Totally Spectacular Things lizzie Has Been Doing While You’ve Been Snorkling, (Or Whatever it Is You Do in the Summertime):

1. Waiting tables. I’ve broken two mugs (expectedly), said more ya’lls than i think a Dolly-Parton-omoter could count, lost one nametag, acquired a minor burn (wouldn’t be summertime if i hadn’t!), and only dramatically screwed up a singular wine order. Highlights: a table of ladies who, at 11 in the morning, all had a double round of vodka tonics and one of whom has a goddaughter who attended Mount Holyoke; a gentlemen’s club who tipped me 30% despite the soup incident. Darlings.

2. Playing with the cats. Whew, i know you need to have a seat with this one because i’ve never once declared my unyielding devotion to felines publicly. But i’m here to tell you, it’s true. I’m feisty for felines. Or something. That came off a little too sexual for what i intended. Whatever. And, as it so happens, they provide the most ample excuse for why i haven’t written…because their fondness for my computer extends over my keyboard at the expense of writing. Evidence:

(taken courtesy of my webcam)

3. Attended my little brother’s high school graduation. So this item on ze list most certainly does not fall into the “utterly mundane” category. To refrain from going gushy on ye who read this blog for my sarcastic, pessimistic bite: i felt all gooey in my heart and tears a-welled up in my eyes as my precious babe of a brother, swaddled in his Men’s Extraordinarily-Tall-Robe for the Upper Atmosphere Dwellers graduation gown, crossed the stage basking in his five seconds of utter glory dipped in a glow of pride and delight.

4. Read more Junior Science Fiction novels than could be considered healthy even by the brainiest of librarians. Seriously, Bobby Pendragon and the Travelers of Halla and i have become such chums it’s fearful for Saint Dane. These are references only the twelve year olds of my audience are bound to get. Score one for the maturity scale!

5.  Been blissful in the face of unwavering, nostalgic possibility. And i’m going to leave it as cryptically and stupidly metaphorical as that.

So there’s my utterly narcissistic and indulgent write-up about the veryinterestingtome things going down in my life. Thank you, Mary Day Saou, friend and mom-to-be and blogger-extraordinaire who helped re-convince me that people might be interested to read more, and more regularly! Mary is a real gem. She also might be making a sneak appearance in my next blog post (perhaps as a surprise to her!). So stay tuned! Or go back to snorkeling, whatever,

—

current jam: ‘lily’ by ministry of magic

best thing: button-downs and j. also, extra ice in my tea.

Radical Community: The New Face to the Interpersonal.

Posted on by
Reply

Annnnd we’re back, folks, with programming per usual. Or per what i said a week ago. Whatever.

In all of my musings (and subsequent conversations) about the nature of the internet and society, there seems one further inevitability that occurs within our societal discourse about the interwebz: the idea that internet-based connections are ruining face-to-face time with Real people. Rather than spending a dime at the drug store and having a real old-fashioned Coca-Cola, we kids waste away our hours on that FaceBook contraption.

see footnote for source :)

To be totally fair, i could have finished my novel* in the time i’ve spent stalking you all online. So such a criticism is, at least by my book on a soap box with a mini-megaphone and a too-inflated ego, pretty much due. There are absolutely cases of people (myself included) who spend too much time on their computers and not enough time outside (et cetera).

But i don’t think the internet is destroying human contact. I just think it’s being reshaped and molded into something different.

I guess in the whole of this series the point ultimately i am trying to communicate is this: the internet is like magic. Or superpowers. It isn’t inherently evil or benevolent; it simply is. Therefore, the internet is what we make of it. Sure, there are people building and designing it, shaping the way we experience it, but it is also a tool that we can use to bully people anonymously or to build a new, worldsuck-fighting community transcendent of global boundaries.

In my own personal microcosm of the chaos, the internet has been a tool for mostly good. I’m talking to you lovely people, here, some of you whom i’m never met and only stumbled upon this blog because you were looking for “too much eggnog christmas cats” or “the fred weasley kitty love story teenage dream” (and you thought i wasn’t noticing).** A year ago, i started to throw myself into the Nerdfighter social media community. I’ve made actual friends because of such reckless abandon of some social mores – and i’ve also learned what to keep off the internet. Sometimes, i find myself learning more about the contemporary state of American politics from watching “average Americans” spout their opinions on the matter than i do from any news channel. In many ways, the internet is an equalizer (if you are on the side of the digital divide that favors your class, socio-economic standing, leisure time, educational abilities and standing… Another time, though).

When i consider and reflect on 2011, i cannot help but marvel at the power of the internet. The “Arab Spring” literally started because of Twitter! That’s insane!

If i had a TARDIS to go back even five years ago, people would have scoffed at the very notion. Forget face-to-face time, the interconnectivity of the people in Tunisia and Egypt were so intricately linked because of social media they managed to throw over their governments. That seems like people still care about each other in a very real sense to me. Occupy Wall Street gained popularity because of Tumblr. I learned of the protests, the brutality, the miscommunications, and the ideas behind the movement because of my interest in cat pictures and Doctor Who gifs (which led me to create my tumblr in the first place) long before anyone on the news started reporting things. What this says about “mass media” i am yet unsure – but i am certain it means that the internet is here to stay.

And this is really good by me. Yes, we need rules. Yes, these will inevitably be broken. But while i may need to tear myself away from the wifi more often that i do at present, i also think we as a generation and we as a people are starting to capitalize on incredible potential for the spread of New Ideas. The internet was incredibly helpful for me in my summer abroad; my friends and i were able to email each other with delightful frequency, and i was able to process much of what i was learning and seeing and not understanding here. Without these two aspects to my time apart from the world of my youth, returning to college would have been extraordinarily difficult. The internet, as a tool to connect me with the face-time people of my “real life,” was a gift that kept us interconnected. Creativity in the form of revolution manifesting because of the radical idea that i can talk to you – you beautiful people – in Istanbul or Australia or the UK.

The internet is what we make of it – and we can be a radical community, together. Let’s use our powers for good!

—

current jam: “wonderland” alex carpenter & jason munday

best thing in my life right now: downton abbey. guys. the bbc has official ruined that glimmer of a smidgen of hope i ever once harbored for a social life. guys. i cannot do this.

on the photos: these are some (supermegafoxyawesomehot) posters available FO FREE if you click here (my personal favorite is the facebook one, but skype is a cloooose second!). i discovered them firstly on my tumblr, and secondly on decorhacks.

*see this video for clarification.

** these are real search terms that have brought such seekers to muh blawg. and i thought i was the elephant in the room. (they are actually, most of them, incredibly amusing. should you have interest, i might do a post of my favorites from the year).