Something to Write Home About

There is something about stopping to get gas around 2:30 in the morning on a warm summer night, standing alone without another soul in sight. Eating a bag of Gushers and being serenaded by Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" sounding from the loudspeakers above.
Sometimes life is just something to write home about.

Where the Wind Blows

The light on my laptop is flashing like a flashlight a toddler just figured out how to operate. I don't have the energy to get up and plug it in to give it the juice it needs to keep going, perhaps it is more like a toddler than I realized.

Graduating from college is a momentous occasion that anyone will tell you is unforgettable. For my efforts I was given a cheap water bottle and a license plate holder to promote my school pride and help quench any thirst encountered as a graduate. Well worth my time and sizable financial donation if you ask me.

I knew in the midst of my studies and planning for the future that upon graduation I might have difficulty finding gainful employment having cast my lot in the respectability and sparkle of a Fine Art degree. But like most ambitious gunslingers I decided I'd worry about that another day when the future became the present, a future that could be filled with flying cars and Game of Thrones re-runs.

Finding a job is a lot like dating. You are looking for your perfect match, someone that doesn't mind your terrible handwriting or weekend LARP'ing habit. The hunt for the ideal job includes deal breakers like location, dress code, honorary titles, vacation and benefits, kitchen duties, co-worker nicknames, and a litany of other considerations. Each interview is like a date, you prepare and dress up all fancy and respectable hiding your true self, and then you lie like a witch in a medieval courtroom saying anything to get them to like you. If you are lucky enough to get a second or third, even a promising fourth interview, you begin to really become invested and you might even start planning your life around having that job like a teenage crush around prom. When they call to tell you "We've offered the position to someone else, but we think you are great!" your heart will sink just as it does during a breakup. You might become desperate and look farther away for jobs that are more difficult, pay less, demand more, or have bizarre tests and rituals to pass before being accepted for an interview. The snarky geniuses at a smarmy startup might laugh and snort and call you a n00b before offering you an exotic, flavored bottle of eco-friendly water on your way out.

Perhaps in the end you will find what you are looking for, gainful employment with a company that uses actual desks and chairs and pays a decent wage. Perhaps you will find that you are selling roses on the corner of the street on Mother's Day even though Santa is obviously moving in on your turf and taking corners, as it is the blizzard of the century outside. Perhaps you will be like me and get to work with the smooth, relaxing sounds of Little Richie pouring over the airwaves as my coworker serenades me to give me an education in "real music." Hey, we can't all live the dream. If we all did, then there would be no $5 roses on some lucky mother's table right now.

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.