Weathering a Storm

Someone had the bright idea to go hiking on a random Thursday just because they had heard their boss talking about this majestic place with waterfalls and lakes that was easy to hike to... oh wait that was my idea, and fortunately I knew just the person to drag along.

Jessie and I headed up to this supposed wonderland giving ourselves plenty of time to hike to the lake at the top and back while still being able to get home in time for of all things, country dancing. Why anyone would want to voluntarily subject themselves to torture of such a grievous nature I am unsure. We started out just the way Jessie drives, going the wrong way. After getting our bearings and reminding ourselves that Louis and Clark followed a woman successfully we headed out into nature. The trail was well maintained and the going was easy, which made our first encounter with other hikers somewhat bizarre. They were a family of four, if you count the dog which I am. A dad that without a doubt owns a riding mower, a mother, and a daughter that probably doesn't hike all that often. They all sat together on a rock panting and as we came into view they expressed their undying gratitude they were on the way back rather than in our shoes. "Only 6 more miles to go!" they called to us as we passed on by. It wasn't an encouraging thought, we anticipated soon mirroring their exhausted actions on a rock further up the trail but we pressed on.

We continued on up the trail finding the going to be relatively easy. There were a surprising number of snakes but it was otherwise enjoyable scenery. The sun was as hot as it had ever been, and the sky had scarcely a cloud in it. Jessie was whining like a little kid at the carnival without any money for rides about the weather and that she had heard some weather woman on the radio threateningly forecast rain, thunder, and apocolyptic lightning from the east. I would've perhaps entertained the notion if it wasn't so outlandish, and if it wasn't coming from Jessie.

We had looked up directions before we came, which made getting lost at the beginning extra embarrassing. But we also knew that we were soon to come to a bridge, followed by some switchbacks which would signal the end was within sight and we were at the lake. But first we had to run across another weirdo in waders who commented, "You guys are late!" I checked my phone's reception to see if I couldn't call the health department or the pound, but I didn't have any bars so we pressed on. It wasn't too long before we came across a well-crafted bridge, followed by some switchbacks. We were excited to have reached the landmarks so soon. Unfortunately, dark clouds had magically appeared and rain started to sprinkle with an "I told you so" attitude. Oddly Jessie was sporting the same attitude.

We walked faster in an effort to outrun the rain, we had to be close since we'd seen the bridge and navigated the switchbacks, or so we thought when we ran across another bridge followed by some additional switchbacks, followed by another bridge, and then another. We were just about to write off weather men, weather women, and instruction writers the world over when we reached the lake at the top. It was around this same moment when the clouds opened up and the rain began to pour. We looked at the lake for a minute and then huddled under a tree. We hadn't been prepared for the rain, we were dressed for the scorching heat wave we had been experiencing when we started the hike, now we were soaked and freezing.

We waited for a little while for the rain to die down a bit and then we headed back down the trail. We made really good time heading back and we put the rock dwelling family to shame. We had almost made it back when we ran into another family, this time on horseback. They apparently thought we were more footloose than them, and since they were more connected to the animal kingdom we should move off the trail for them. We obliged, though not happily. There is a common saying heard in nearly every state, that if you don't like the weather then wait five minutes. But if you wait too long you'll miss out on country dancing.

Breaking Bowls

I have bad luck with clay. I've been fortunate enough (depends on how you look at it) to take both sculpture and ceramics now, and to be tasked with forming all manner of obsurdities with my hands. Even my illustration class has forced me to confront my deepest fears and sculpt a maquette of polymer clay without regard to any distaste one might experience as a result of such actions. I discovered almost immediately a fact I probably should've known since childhood, that I have no aptitude with 3-dimensional artwork. Perhaps I was one of those kids more interested in eating the Play-doh than in molding a snake and spaghetti combo platter for two. This semester I undertook the daunting task of becoming a mediocre crafter of ceramic ornaments. The first task was by far the most difficult as is often the case with riddles and safe cracking. I had to learn to make a simple cylinder out of clay on the pottery wheel. It took most of the semester for me to master what my teacher could while blindfolded and being pelted by raisins and peanut brittle. After mastering, excuse me, after managing to consistently muster an acceptable cylinder on most attempts I was ready to start making my dreams come true, my ceramics dreams that is.

Each project was a different object, typically a dish that took a little practice to craft. Each class period we had an assignment due, we would gather around a table and present our work and then view the work of all our classmates. This humiliating ritual always enabled us to see who was the best in the class and naturally the worst as well. I'm happy to report that I wasn't the worst, because some people didn't turn anything in, but I was on the unfortunate end of things. One particular assignment was to craft 2 exquisite bowls. While this might seem straightforward, it was in fact very straightforward. I worked on my bowls a good amount of time and crafted what I felt were gorgeous bowls worthy of a royal breakfast of cereal or something fancy royalty eats from a bowl. As our ritual commenced I went to get my bowls from the damp room where they had been drying. I picked the best of them up and headed to the door and the bowl split in my hands and fell to the floor where it exploded with my heart and the hopes of a passing grade.


Fortunately my teacher was standing next to me when the tragedy occured so he was aware I had had a bowl ready to show. He asked perhaps a pointless question, "Was that your bowl?" I acknowledged that it had been. "Well that's not good. I guess you'll just have to make another one." was his reply. Distressed I went back to work trying to make another bowl as amazing as I had somehow done before. After several attempts and several days I produced another fine bowl that was worthy of the much sought after seal of approval I give myself on occasion. I set this masterpiece in the damp room to dry so I could present it to my teacher and the world. After a day of sweet talking and natural air drying, I took my bowl from the shelf to trim and put the final touches on it. After picking it up I heard a strange noise and saw what can be best described as a hole in the perfect plan. There was a small hole directly in the center of my bowl about the size of a dime. Yet another beautiful bowl disasterously destroyed right before my moistening eyes. I don't know what it's like to have a puppy run away from home, but I imagine the feeling is similar to mine in that moment. I knew I couldn't handle much more heart wrenching ceramic failures without turning into a math major.

I spent the rest of the semester practicing and hammering out dishware like a madman, but my luck with bowls was still distressing until the end. My final week of working with clay I focused all my energy on bowl making and determined to master this elusive and supposedly easy dish before leaving empty handed and swearing off cereal and soup forever. I'm not sure if it was all the practice, hard work, and determination, or if it was just the awkward kid in my class staring over my shoulder the entire time I was working but my luck changed and I proved everyone wrong and right, depending on which way they were betting. In the end I walked out of class feeling I had accomplished something,something great, and also with a truckload of ceramic dishes that I will never use. Sometimes you have to break a few bowls before you learn how to really make them, and to appreciate them when you finally do.

All the Pretty Lights

Light exhibits properties of both a particle and a wave.

Usually I am able to pull in a good 6 hours of sleep a night. That's not too bad for a college student, at least from what I hear. It's enough sleep to keep you alive but slightly groggy throughout the week. Then on the weekend I sleep in and refill my nearly empty tank. Lately I've been getting far less than my usual 6 hours, and it's been taking a toll. I am far more tired and exhausted than usual, but additionally I am far more easily agitated. Not to mention my spelling becomes atrocious, perhaps the worst aspect of all. This sudden sleep shortage has come as a result of my previously single roommate becoming entangled in a relationship with a girl he recently met. Every night it seems without fail, my roommate either calls or receives a call from said girl originating around 1:00 am, and lasting several hours. The majority of individuals I have run across in my life have been the sort that usually would rather not have personal conversations with the opposite sex in the presence of another person. They would typically walk out into the empty front room to sit on the couch and discuss the ever important issues of who misses who more since seeing each other an hour ago, or who loves who more. Instead of utilizing the spacious, empty front room to pace and talk my roommate prefers the comfort of his bed and my unsolicited ears. I find it rather difficult to sleep to an ongoing conversation, whether it is in Spanish or not. The end result is an increasing level of irritation until I either fall unconscious or the conversation ends and I am able to compose myself and fall asleep, hours later than intended. Besides feeling zombie-like all day, I have also noticed that when I am sleeping and wake up during the night I am much more disoriented than usual, and prone to some crazy dreams.

I went on an art travel study trip this past weekend to Salt Lake City, to visit all the galleries and art museums in the area as well as a few other landmarks nearby. I was worried the trip was going to be an annoying waste of time and more than a minor inconvenience. Thankfully I was proven wrong completely. We stayed in a hotel downtown blocks away from the massive buildings that make up the skyline of the city. Outside the window flashed the lights of the buildings and signage advertising parking and midnight sushi. It reminded me of staying in Vegas where there are always lights flashing brightly outside of any hotel window, day or night. There is always something shining outside those large glass windows.

It was just after Thanksgiving and nearing Christmas time, and surprise surprise I was sick. Nothing saps the holiday spirit like having family around to visit for a short time and being too unwell to spend any time with them. Such was the case for me, and I was trapped in the dark and lonely isolation of my room  wrapped in the blankets on my bed hoping for sleep to save me from the current uncomfort of being conscious. I was drifting through a feverish sleep cycle when I was jettisoned awake by the unmistakable feeling of something or someone being on top of me. Still semiconscious, I realized what was taking place. My 2 year old niece had wandered into my room, "the fun room", and was climbing up onto the bed and on top of me. She was saying, "Lights! Lights! look at the lights danyo!" I pulled myself up and helped her onto the bed where she went to the window just above and began pointing to the recently hung Christmas lights glowing outside. I sat there and looked at the lights with her for a few minutes until her mom came in and pulled her away to let me back to my feverish slumber. It was a beautiful moment, topped only by my awaking in the morning to a surprise cup full of cheerios in my bed.

The End is Near

"Some say the end is near. Some say we'll see Armageddon soon. I certainly hope we will, I sure could use a vacation from all of this..." -J.M.K.

I spent all week working on a landscape painting for my Oil Painting class. I really loved the sky I had painted. It was a beautiful blue that shifted from a darker, deep blue to a lighter, less saturated blue. It was probably the one thing I've painted so far that I've actually been happy with and proud of. Today in class my teacher gave each of us a critique of our painting, but before walking around he had us each display our paintings so we could see how everyone else in the class was doing on theirs. Everyone propped up their paintings and we all stood there gazing upon each other's handiwork. The results were amazing. There were some incredible paintings sitting before my eyes, and then there was mine...

My painting was by far the worst in the class. It was so shameful in comparison to everyone else's paintings. I wanted to run up to the chalkboard and throw myself over my efforts, shielding my classmates from the horror like a soldier throwing himself on a grenade to save his comrades. After a moment of silence and the realization that I am by far the worst painter in my class if not the world, we went back to our easels to work on our masterpieces, or in my case failure. My teacher made his way around and eventually got to my section. His first question was "What do you like about your painting?" It may have been an embarrassing disaster, but I was still proud of that sky, so I told him. He didn't seem to agree. He then took my paintbrush, slathered it in purple paint, and splotched it all over my beautiful blue sky. My heart sank. He explained to me why he did that and why it was a good idea, but all I could hear was the voice in my head telling me to punch him in the gut for ruining my sky. Of course a few more strokes and the painting started improving, which is why he is the teacher and I'm the mediocre student.

I came home from a long day at work looking to melt my mind away into numbness and listless splendor. Naturally the best way to accomplish something some people pay drug dealers a fortune for is to turn to Facebook. I tossed off my backpack like a high school drama queen, threw my "dead of winter" coat off onto the back of my chair, and slumped down into my chair in front of my computer like an online gaming fanatic getting ready for a raid. I had only just sat down and gotten comfortable, and watched my news feed displayed before my eyes when I heard an unmistakable clicking noise. The screen flashed into the infamous Blue Screen of Death, and with it my hopes of a low level brain functioning afternoon. I tried to reboot my computer as any youngster within sight of their heart's desire would, and to my dismay was met with utter failure. My hard drive had crashed in a manner most befitting NASCAR legends, and it wasn't coming back anytime soon.

As I finally got up the courage to close my gaping jaw, I started to realize the impact of this moment on me. All of my Illustration scans were gone, all of my personal exploration assignments for the semester were gone, all of my photos, all of my funny cat videos, all of my post-it notes littering the desktop...gone. To say that this was devastating was an understatement. Perhaps the worst aspect was the unexpected timing of the crash. I had to at least make an effort to recover so many important files, so I went off in search of a Geek, or rather a squad of geeks to see what they might have to offer. I carried my massive desktop computer into the store, nodded to the sentinel guarding the door in his blue polo shirt, and walked over to Geek Squad central. I explained to the head geek my issues and asked for a possible plan of action. He took a look and decided it was just the video card that had malfunctioned causing everything to shut down. This was good news I thought as he shuffled off to get a new card from the shelf. He installed it and everything looked good. I paid the painful 80 dollars for the card and counted myself lucky it wasn't worse. But then it got worse..

The guy with the official looking name tag ran into a snag trying to boot up my computer. It seems the hard drive had failed. This was exactly what I had already known and explained to them upon entry to the clubhouse. I'm not sure how or why they decided I needed a new video card, or why they made me pay for it when it didn't accomplish a thing. Needless to say I was disappointed, and out 80 bucks. I made a special appointment to use the "mule" to attempt to transfer my files from the failed hard drive later, since it was all tied up at the moment...there is a joke in there somewhere, a bad one. Carrying my obliterated computer out with a flashy new video card in defeat, I headed home. Hope is somewhere on the horizon, a very distant horizon surrounded by black clouds. But it is there still nonetheless.

Close Calls and Cold Cuts

I knew it was going to be a hectic morning before I went to sleep last night. I had left a lot on my plate which as any fat kid will tell you, wasn't a good idea. I had been working on illustrating a book cover for my Illustration class for over a week now. I decided just the other night that I hated the design I'd made and wanted to do a new one. This is again a terrible idea in regards to timing and proper pacing, but I felt that it would be the better decision in the end and my final product would be much improved and my grade would likewise follow. I started work and put in the time redoing the painting for the cover. It was long and painstaking work but in the end I loved the design and I think the painting turned out pretty well. It wasn't a masterpiece or anything, but it was definitely acceptable, especially under the circumstances. Having finished my painting I still had the task of going and getting a digital version printed in full color and then matting the original and digital together into a final presentation.

This was the task I left myself for this morning, both the printing and matting. I woke up early and got ready to finish up the assignment. I had until 11 to get everything done and make it to class. I set off to the printers first to get my digital copy printed out. I got there in good time even with the roads super icy, and to my surprise found that there was no wait. I was in luck! I stepped up to the counter handed the clerk my flash drive and ordered Color like it was a limited edition sandwich at McDonalds. The clerk smiled and informed me that unfortunately their printer was broken and it would be a few hours before a technician could come service it. Oddly, it appeared as though he expected me to wait around for those few hours possibly discussing french cinema or playing croquet. I declined that offer and ran to the school in hopes of finding a printer that could manage to spit out a 6x9 color copy of any quality.

I was in luck yet again as the conveniently located Copy Spot copying center was able to take my order and print out a gorgeous version of my book cover. I had to go to the Bookstore to get my black matte board anyway so it turned out perfectly. I took my copy and my newly acquired mat to the library and began hastily cutting away at it with 30 minutes left before class began. As I was finishing taping the back I glanced at the clock to see to my horror that I had 3 minutes until class began. I was on the 3rd floor of the library and I had class on the 3rd floor of a different building. I rushed to class as fast as I could, possibly setting a record for most stairs descended and ascended in 3 minutes time. I made it into class and tacked up my illustration just as my name was called for role. It was the closest of calls, following quite possibly one of the longest critiques I've ever sat through. I was starving by the time class finally got out, but I had to head to work.

There is a cafe right next door to work that always smells really great. I've never been yet and I'm not sure exactly what they serve but there is always a long line. I stopped by really quick just to check it out but all they had was Bagels. Why there is such a line always for bagels I cannot explain. I went into the student grocery place and grabbed a sandwich because I saw a girl carrying one out and it seemed like what a logical person would eat for lunch. I hate sandwiches. I have never liked them from the time I was little until the present day. I end up eating them from time to time and it always makes me think of when I was little and my mom would pack me sack lunches for elementary school and there would always be without fail, a sandwich. She always complains that I would just throw my sandwiches in the trash rather than eat them, and to be honest I don't remember that at all, but it's quite believable knowing me. It makes me feel slightly bad knowing the effort it takes to make someone a lunch, even a very basic one that I wouldn't just eat the sandwiches in appreciation for my mom making them, but what can I say, I hate sandwiches. So I ate a sandwich today, and I can honestly say that I still don't like them.

Escape Artists Never Die

There is a bridge near the county line that spans over the infamous Snake River, just between the forgettable town of Rigby (where the television was invented) and the strangely profitable Bear World resort. The bridge is hardly remarkable even with the vast river flowing beneath it, one could pass over the top of it without even realizing they had driven over a bridge much less a river named for its winding snake-like course. It was on a dark and unreasonably cold night that the forces of nature conspired against me to try and use this bridge to destroy me, my transportation, and Jessie's brand new guitar hero controllers. We had decided to be spontaneous and go somewhere fancy for dinner. Nothing says fancy like the Olive Garden so we headed out, even though neither one of us liked the Olive Garden at all. In fact I'd say no two people despised the place more than we did. Putting our preferences for fine dining to the wind we headed down to Idaho Falls to sit surrounded by the elite upper class of Eastern Idaho and stuffed our faces with breadsticks. Coming down to the city was no small affair so we had to stop in at Best Buy and see what kind of deals you can usually only find online. Jessie's love of guitar hero and making new friends by owning guitar hero convinced her that purchasing another controller was a genius move, although I wasn't so sure. We headed home at this point, leftover Olive Garden in our laps, guitar hero controller safely stowed away, and Funeral for a Friend CD in the player. It was a recipe for the perfect ride home, but dark forces were at work......

It had snowed a few days before but the roads were clear and the weather had been nice that day. There was still snow drifts off the sides of the road and in the median but there wasn't a flake to be seen on the roads themselves. We had just reached the bridge when all time seemed to slow to a crawl. There was some scientific miracle taking place that we were oblivious to until it was too late. The water under the bridge turned to condensation or something similar and caused the road above the bridge to be a pure sheet of black ice. We hit it and spun like a quarter on a lunchroom table. There was no time to do anything but prepare for the crash as it happened in front of our own eyes. We hit the guard rail and bounced into a ditch ripping the front and back of the car apart. The force of the impact shattered the rear view mirror into tiny shards and sent them flying directly into my face. The airbag exploded out just after the mirror and again smashed into my face. There was a thick, dark plume of smoke that erupted and a crunching thud. The sounds of "Escape Artists Never Die" blared over the car stereo as we sat in shock of what had just occurred. Fortunately neither of us was really hurt, and our wounds were easily tended to by the paramedics that came shortly after.

A few days ago I emailed my sculpture professor informing him that I had missed several sessions of his class due to a recent serious illness and that I had every intention of making up the work I had missed and also in attending the remainder of his class without fail. Today I was graced with his response. Unfortunately for me, he was unsympathetic to my plight and suggested I drop his course rather than give him the satisfaction of failing me for missing more than the allotted number of absences as clearly outlined in the carefully xeroxed syllabus provided each student on day one of the course. This news was even more unfortunate due to the giant red marking "REQUIRED TO GRADUATE" that appeared under the course title on my graduation plan. Needless to say it was a kick to the stomach to find myself in such a situation.

Today was a day of firsts. My roommate asked me to accompany him and several other friends to Buffalo Wild Wings (Which I'd never been to before) to see the UFC fight tonight. I'd never watched UFC and had no interest in it. I really don't understand the appeal, but then again I never understood the draw of watching a bunch of colorful cars drive around a circle for hours at a time either. After the internal injuries at the hands of my now-former sculpture teacher this morning, I felt like a night out on the town with the boys just might be the grandpa's cough syrup I needed. I followed another roommate down into town since I had no clue where this magical wing place was, and Dan said he would meet us there. We arrived and the place was packed, mostly with giant potato-shaped guys in MMA shirts and facial/neck hair. The wait was 30 minutes and I was immediately ready to throw in the towel. But rather than tap out like a wuss, I held strong and waited like a champ. (Yes I'm going to keep throwing out fighting terminology because I'm witty like that). Before we could be seated Dan texted and said he wasn't coming. I believe my blood literally boiled or at least simmered for a minute or two. Here I had come just because he asked me to, to a place I didn't care about, and to watch a fight I couldn't be less interested in, and it was now just I and a roommate I consider weird and disposable. Shortly after the fight started and the doors were closed. There was no more seating so we were basically out of luck. The manager took us aside and said "Hey, I got a spot for you. Follow me." We followed him down into the pit of drunken hooligans that call cage fighting a sport. There was a ramp that went down into the main eating area, and to the side of the ramp was a giant ledge. The manager pointed to the raised ledge and said "You can sit up there and watch the fight. I will send a waitress over to take your order." So we sat up on this ledge above the crowd. I'll admit it, it was awkward. But after the initial awkwardness wore off it was actually pretty awesome. All the staff seemed to love the peculiar arrangement, and everyone that walked by talked to us mostly remarking on how we had the best seats in the house. The guys immediately below us offered to toss us dirty dollar bills in exchange for a dance, which we of course graciously accepted. I stuffed my face with wings, watched grown men beat each other senseless, and had a great time. The final fight was between 2 women fighters, which I was surprised was even legally allowed to be broadcast. It was a great time, and a great fight too I must admit.

After the fight was over I headed out to Bowl-ero, which is one of the sketchiest bowling alleys I have had the good sense to walk into. The booming sounds of Bono and the boys laced with the sounds of ricocheting pins and rolling bowling balls is a sound that could heal the hearts of the broken masses. While waiting for my friend to bowl I was complaining about being stuck for another semester and the gall of my ever-aging sculpture assassin. My friend told me something I've heard again and again throughout my life. "Everything happens for a reason." Sitting on yet another ledge, at the Bowl-ero I recognized that I had spent a lot of time on ledges that day, but also that even when life comes crashing down around you, escape artists never die.

Disarmed With a Smile

It was going to be a long day. I knew that before it had ever even started. I went to bed the night before dreading the massive amount of "to do's" on my imagined list within my mind. It seems strange but my body must have somehow adapted to the few hours of sleep I manage to scrape from each night. I had only slept two hours when I woke from a strange dream. I couldn't go back to sleep so I just laid in bed irritated as the minutes until my alarm blared came closer and closer. I finally gave up waiting for my alarm to test my patience and just got up and ready for class. It was cold out which was no surprise, it's always disturbingly cold out here. I walked to class quickly but then stopped in the library. I was almost 20 minutes early so I decided to sit in one of the nice chairs they provide for people to gawk at others walking by.

There are only 2 kinds of people that walk by that early in the morning on their way to class. There are the dedicated, all-hands-on-deck students that would have a "Led Zepplin in a nice hotel on a Saturday night" style breakdown if they were late to class or missed an assignment... and then there are the stoic, zombie-faced kids that still can't define economics because they don't realize that's the name of their class they are attending so insanely early every morning. I don't like to categorize myself so I won't try to fit myself into either category, it would just be unfair.

It turns out that sculpture class is really quite boring when you don't have a sculpture to work on. I decided about midway through the class period to bail after filling approximately 3 pages worth of doodles. I made like the French hearing the sounds of conflict and ran out of there like a madman. After my retreat I headed to Illustration. I had only been in class a few minutes when my professor called me out and said... "I need to talk to you."

My heart sank. Captain, crew, ship, all of it.

He pulled me out into the hall to have a discussion. I tried to think of how many people I'd hit with my car lately or if I'd prank called anyone lately like in the 90's.... I couldn't think of any possible reason for this sidebar. Once in the hall he again said, " I've been meaning to talk to you." "Me?" I asked. He then asked, "You turned in the Dropkick Murphy's poster for your personal exploration assignment right?"
Oh yeah... I did do that. It was an assignment where we submitted illustrations we liked and were inspired by. I didn't think there was any problem with what I'd submitted, but then here I was.

It turns out my teacher used to be quite the fan of punk rock, and so he called me out into the hall to secretly discuss a former passion of his. We talked about different shows we'd been to and bands we liked, all while my fellow students were in class and having to read some random article. We talked for around 10 minutes before he decided it was probably time to really start class. I went from having a heart attack to having my heart warmed and finding a friend in my teacher who I would never had guessed had much of anything in common with me. Punk rock, bringing people together who can't stand other people.

It Takes One

Someone once said to me, "You don't suffer fools and the world is full of fools." 

I knew a man a while ago from the cold north, he was older and widely known and respected. He seemed to know everyone in town and was surely known by almost everyone around. He was talking to me one day about an old friend of his who he'd been friends with for over twenty years. He didn't know this good friend of his's name, nor did he know the name of many of his other good friends. He explained that when they had first met they had told each other their names but he had forgotten his friends shortly after. He was embarrassed to ask his friend his name again after that, so he just always greeted his friend without naming him. Every time he saw his friend he would just say "Hey, how's it going?" without ever mentioning his name. He carried on year after year not remembering several of his friends names until the present day. It was a funny story and it was easy to see how the same thing could happen to just about anyone.

There is a guy that has his stand next to me in painting class. Everyday we stand next to each other and paint. A lot of times we are partners on assignments or set up still life scenes together. He always asks me everyday how I'm doing and calls me by name. I don't remember his name and it has been several weeks now of classes. He is a really cool guy and I like talking to him in class but I don't have the slightest idea of his name. I'm going to find out before the semester ends though, perhaps through intrigue, perhaps by hiring a private investigator. Of course I could always just ask him... nope, that'll never happen.

I tricked my roommate into going to a Harry Potter party tonight. I told him it was just a party. He left almost immediately. 

People come into our lives and make life better and more interesting. When they leave they take something of us with them. It's good to have friends, even if you don't know their names. 

Cold Front Coming In

It snowed yesterday. It was almost apocalyptic looking out the window at the flakes flying nearly horizontal, and whirling around in the winter wind. By the time I went to bed it had calmed down and there was a peaceful quiet to the evening air. There had been plows out clearing the main roads and parking lot, as well as people clearing the sidewalks leaving a clean path to the campus and our apartments. I went to bed dreading the morning coming, but for the reason that I had to get up early to get ready and make it to my 8 A.M. class, not because of the day's weather.

I woke up this morning dissatisfied with the 6 hours of sleep I had gotten. I snoozed my alarm for the precious 5 minutes I could squander laying in bed wishing I could somehow slow time to a crawl, but alas my alarm shrieked 5 minutes later sending me out of bed onto the cold floor. I hurried and got ready, putting in minimal effort to make myself as close to presentable as possible in as short a time. I decided as I was zipping up my "dead of winter" coat to grab my gloves, which resemble mittens before heading for the door.
I opened the door expecting the cold to slam into me like a tidal wave, but found myself standing motionless mouth wide open for a different reason instead. There was no longer the clean, clear path from my apartment to campus, but instead stood several feet of snow. A large drift had developed in front of the door, much like town homes near the beach, waiting to come collapsing through the front door. After my moment of hesitation, I stepped out into the drift of snow, and I didn't look back. I walked through the knee-deep snow all the way to class watching cars spinning out, girls falling down stairs, Eskimos running dog sled teams into town, and possibly the extinction of some large species of reptiles, all the while carrying my illustration board which had inscribed upon it my previous evenings work of hours of charcoal attempting to mimic Blackbeard the infamous buccaneer.

Arriving at sculpture class dripping wet, with an inch-thick coating of snow covering my backpack, I took a moment of silence for all those desperate souls surely lost in the morning's weather that would no doubt soon be forced to turn to cannibalism...

I made a wolf today in sculpture class. It somehow seemed fitting. It made me feel slightly better about being so terrible at crafting Abraham Lincoln's dignified face. I doubt I'll ever be able to look at a 5 dollar bill again. Pennies will likely be okay, they are so much less judgmental. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but Illustration class somehow got away from the teacher today and became story time. I heard about a man that shot his neighbor in the face pheasant hunting, apparently it can happen to more than Dick Cheney. Then there was the hillbilly kid and his bear stories, stories about growing up in Japan, stories about eavesdropping on other students for creative writing class, the list goes on. Needless to say I didn't need to bring my illustration board with my project that was due today to class. This was slightly irritating because I carried it all the way in the crazy snowstorm, kept it through sculpture class, and it was supposedly due. But it was worth it to hear that a grown man wet his pants after opening his kitchen cabinet that was rattling, and having two baby raccoons jump out at him. I feel a cold front coming in.

Dreaming Out Loud

I found out today that I have bronchitis. I also found out today that I don't like strawberry flavored hot chocolate, although one would think that would be obvious. I thought I would be adventurous and try something new, but as is sometimes the case my sense of adventure left me with a terrible taste in my mouth. Today I also realized what I've already known for quite some time, I'm starting to really get old. I believe the best defense against such feelings is pure unadulterated denial. This semester is really wearing on me more than any semester I can remember. I had to arrange my schedule in an unfortunate array of classes that would appear more like a sinisterly designed torture session than a final semester of classes. Wednesdays by far being the worst, with a morning beginning at 8 with an early morning sculpture class followed by illustration class from 11-2. Then I rush off to work from 2-5, at which point my evening class begins going from 5-7. Needless to say, I feel like an exceptional student at a first-rate university getting a fulfilling education, even if the truth is something completely different. This weekend I will be attempting the impossible, or rather improbable task of completing a sculpture of the magestic Abraham Lincoln, a value painting of a boring still life featuring cubes, a sphere, and single cylinder, and finally a graphite and then seperate charcoal drawing of the infamous Blackbeard the Buccaneer. If I can get all that figured out while coughing every other breath then I don't see how I can't conquer the world, one street corner at a time.

A Reluctant Student Body

It was an incredibly cold morning. The power went off at around 4 this morning to some great fanfare, as I had gone to bed without turning off my computer speakers and they were sizzling and crackling with the sounds of power cutting in and out until they finally went dead along with everything else connected by electricity in this town. Worse than being awakened by the strange otherworldly sounds being emitted from beneath my desk was to hear the sound of the furnace turning off, and knowing it would not be coming back on until someone, somewhere, somehow fixed the town's power crisis this frosty morning. Having been bedridden all of yesterday, I was reluctant to even try and attend 8 A.M. class this morning. That reluctance began long before the power outage and the following crusade of cold air that marked the morning's events. Fortunately for all involved, I was soon flooded with a flurry of irritating text messages, alerts, and phone calls all spawned from the same twisted source, the school. Now for the sake of journalistic integrity, I will just go ahead and admit that I for one have always been of the firm belief that whenever your school is trying to get a hold of you it is bad news, and you should avoid this at all costs. Perhaps this is the paradigm the school was working with when they decided a single text message was unlikely to reach students so they would instead send a flurry of messages, emails, calls, voicemails, and since I haven't checked today perhaps even postcards and letters all in the hopes of reaching a reluctant student body. The irritation I would normally have felt at someone "blowing up" my phone so early after a miserable night's sleep was greatly lessened with each new message. The first was an alert that not only was I without power, but the same fate befell the town and yes, even the school. The next message was an improvement, it went on to say that classes would be postponed until 10:15 as a result of the power outage. This was great news for me with an 8:00 class. I tossed the blanket over my head in an attempt to expel the colder air gathering around me and perhaps magically drift into a peaceful slumber. It was not to be, no sooner had I done so when another flurry of messages arrived. "Alert, students! If you are cold in your apartments come to campus  for shelter." Several robotic voiced voicemails later saying the same thing I became aware I could retreat to campus if I got too cold in my apartment. How walking out into the sub-zero temperatures and snow to find my way to a spacious building with no power or heating to stay warm would help me I was unable to understand. In the end the power returned before severe rioting broke out or any survivor colonies could firmly take root in any of the larger buildings on campus. It was a miracle of modern ingenuity and technology that anyone could appreciate, except perhaps for my 8:00 A.M. sculpture class instructor.

MIT Video - The World is Flat 3.0

MIT Video - The World is Flat 3.0