More of a tangent than a post

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David and I were talking about my hair length, and he said he couldn’t remember ever seeing me with pony tail length hair. I laughed, because that’s so not true. That top photo was taken when we had been dating for a year, but no big deal. This morning we were talking about hair, and how I had wanted to grow mine out for a while. During the photo’s time frame, I had been asking him to help me with the process and remind me that I wanted long hair and to not let me get it cut.* It worked pretty well, and David asked why I ended up cutting it. I lol’d and reminded him I did that when we weren’t dating.

I have been thinking about hair, though, and how it pertains to creating a solid image of one’s self. I don’t like having long hair because I feel really plain. Sure, there are people who will remind me that I don’t look plain with long hair (and thanks to all those people) but it doesn’t matter, since I feel plain. I think I’ve settled on the length I want, though, and while all those near me know how that will so not stay that way, I feel pretty solid on it. I want one look. I want to be able to draw portraits of myself and not have them dated by my hair style. It’s silly and possibly shallow, but there it is.

Marci Ideal Hair Length

I’m thinking somewhere around this length, only much shorter in the back.** Bob style, though, not with layers back there. You know, to get a good level of asymmetry down. And, employment providing, with an underlayer of pink peaking out. Yeah, that would be ideal. Also the eyebrows in the first two photos? Never again. Never. Again.

*Not in a controlling way–in a supportive way

**Also, in a completely narcissistic side note, I think this is hands down one of the cutest photos of me as an adult. So precious. So adorable.

I make no secret of my love for street art

BeautifulGraffiti

It’s no secret that I love graffiti. I have mad props for artists who use the medium. Also, yes I totally get how pretentious all of this sounds, but I can’t help it. I’m a nerdy, upper middle class white girl who’s never actually spray painted anywhere other than one slab of particle board in her dad’s wood shop before acknowledging her complete lack of ability in the genre.

I digress.

I’ve seen a lot of arguments (statements, really) about how graffiti artists are mostly just vandals, and that except for the great gods like Banksy, it’s just destructive and not art at all. Well, last night I had a dream (nightmare, really, but let’s not get into that) that started with my sister and I walking down the street. We paused where a building had recently been demolished, and some street artists had covered the remains in a colorful plethora of art. It was amazingly beautiful, and I was particularly drawn to where one artists had spray painted an old school tape with purple paint. It was my favorite, and I paused to take some pictures.

We walked on and had a really great conversation about street art that I remember almost verbatim. She asked me why I considered it art–why anyone did, really. She wasn’t being critical, just curious, and I tried to give her a solid answer. The first and easiest answer is that people find beauty in what street artists do. People find what they do beautiful, thought provoking and interesting. That’s not the sole criteria for art by any means, but it’s definitely enough to qualify as art.

I went further, though, and I think a further qualifier is that this a medium that people practice and refine their skills at. A lot of people work really hard at creating provocative and interesting street art. Even the lamest, most obnoxiously messy tagging can be some very unpolished and primitive form of art. There’s a book that is totally on my I-fucking-want-this-so-bad that covers the shaping of tagging as fonts and it charts their various cities of origin and evolution through trains. So cool.   I think I can draw the line at solely and intentionally destructive acts of vandalism, but most all of them (even the lame stuff) are a completely legitimate form of artistic expression. Even the intentionally destructive acts can be important artistic statements.

Beautiful Graffiti 2

I like the way I dream

When we were little, my sister and I shared a room. For years we shared a room, which meant for years I would wake up and my sister would regale me with stories of her dreams. She had such epic adventures in her dreams that it became a family thing. One morning she spent an hour telling me about some dream that involved Star Wars and I bet to this day she remembers it. Maybe not the whole dream, per say, but at least that she had it because I used to ask her if she remembered it a lot. It was one of my favorites (although I couldn’t give you any details for the life of me).

I think that the act of telling your dreams to someone when you wake up makes you remember them more. Someone told me that’s how it works–every morning, try and think about what you dreamed. You won’t remember right away (if you had trouble remembering your dreams before this, at least) but the m ore you ask yourself that question when you wake up, the easier it is to remember them.

David has been waking up to me telling him all about the epic adventures I’ve been having in dreamland, and not only am I having more complicated dreams, but I’m remembering the old ones that much clearer.

I don’t drive. I don’t have a license and driving leaves me feeling so anxious my hands shake. Thinking about driving a stick can actually trigger a panic attack, which I fully realize is super ridiculous. It’s not so much a secret in my life, but there it is. I always joke (mostly seriously) that it’s rooted in the recurring nightmares I had when I was younger. After my parents divorced when I was ten, I had six years of almost weekly nightmares about driving through forests and roads with no control over the vehicle. I once started writing a post about this and after I hit the 1,000 word mark detailing the different versions of the dream I decided to scrap the whole thing.

People can be a bit skeptical about the longevity of my recurring dreams, but that isn’t the only example. During my middle school years (ish) I would have a yearly dream where I was traveling through a video game-like world. It was pretty badass and terrifying, usually because I died at the end, but the next year when I had the dream again I would remember the whole layout up until the point where I died, and every year I would get that much further in the adventure until eventually I reached the end. In an ending reminiscent of Ender’s Game, I found myself in a grassy field, surrounded by gentle looking trees in the distance and a fountain with pure crystal blue water in the center.

I never had the dream after that, but I’m pretty sure I could recreate most of the map right now if I sat down with a pen and a paper for an hour.  I also have dreams that take place in the same map, and I think my brain created an entire state-sized layout (small state, like Rhode Island or Maine, not like Oregon or Colorado)  for different scenarios to play out. The map stays more vivid than the stories that play out inside it and I’ve even made a few sketches for a full fledged map.

Last night I woke up from a weird nightmare (unfortunately nightmares are a pretty frequent thing in my sleep pattern, but I deal) where I was Mario running through Hazy Mazy cave only the bad guys looked like giant grasshopper creatures made entirely of bone the bad guys from Doom 3 and Dead Space mixed together. It was pretty terrifying because I kept dying, and even though I knew I had more lives and would just restart the level, dying was still absolutely terrifying.

I was about to end the post right there, but man that’s a weird place to end it. Seriously my dreams are pretty cool. They’re elaborate odysseys that take me an hour to go through each morning and every time I do, I remember being eight and sharing a room with my sister, listening to her epic dream time adventures and wondering why my dreams were so boring in comparison.

Starting my day off with peanut butter M&Ms

Because really, why not?

Today  is Friday, which really feels like something worth celebrating.

This week has just been crazy full of Diablo II. It’s a bit embarrassing, but David and I are having a blast so who’s to judge. The computers are set up in the bedroom, so when David and I picked up Dairy Queen for dinner in the middle of the week, it was a little (a lot) strange but not unexpected when he looked at me and asked “should I just take the bag straight to the bedroom, then?’

Even weirder was when I said yes, of course.

This morning David had an hour and a half before he needed to leave for work, so we spent it making a chunk of progress in the third act (further than I’ve ever been before!!!1!!one1!). Found two waypoints and fought two dungeons, bitches. Because we’re dorks.

On a different (but eventually related) note, I have one of those mild little irritant-turned-questions buzzing in the back of my brain. I don’t understand couples who conduct their relationships publicly on Facebook. I almost feel like a dick for mentioning it, since I may have a friend or two who do it (bless you guys) but I don’t understand. I mean, if you’re using your phone to Facebook, then why wouldn’t you just text your partner directly? Wouldn’t that be faster and more immediate? Or maybe you’re sharing a link–that wouldn’t send through text message. At least not easily. But isn’t that what email is for? And then your conversations stay a bit more private? David and I have an epic email chain going that we talk to each other on throughout the day, on top of texting.

To each their own.

That email conversation, though? It’s full of David sending me super excited Diablo III for PS3 reviews. It was started by the nine exclamation point email and it’s only gotten more out of control. We’ve been theorizing about game play and guessing about what kinks will be there, and how they’ve possibly been worked out. I already know exactly I’d want the controller to be configured, but I’m still pretty stoked on what it actually looks like.

Okay so that’s enough about Diablo for now. But don’t expect any kind of relief from this, at least not for a bit. The only things slowing us down from finishing the game this weekend is 1) Starcraft and 2) Rise of Nations.

Enjoy the weekend!

The bathtub drain plug has been removed from my throat

So a long time ago, when I was an itty bitty tiny person, I learned how to talk. Then, as the family joke goes, I never ever stopped. I was the chatty kid who couldn’t be quiet in school, who always lost the quiet game and who always spent like an hour telling a joke even though I had no clue what the punchline was.

Somewhere along the way to here I lost that. I got quiet. Weirdly so. It’s less of a I’m-broken-from-a-strange-talking-too-much-trauma and more of a I-forgot-I-like-talking-a-lot thing.

Sunday I was hanging with just family (blood-related family, so no boys allowed) and it was awesome. It was hilarious. We laughed a lot. And me? I talked a lot. I talked up a whole storm. I was sharing ridiculous anecdotes about walking Lyra and the feral cat population and spinning elaborate jokes that were funny (I hope) without ever getting to a punchline. It felt nice. Sure, it was mostly due to the amount of alcohol swimming in my blood stream, but whatever. It was fun.

And it hasn’t stopped. I feel so full of stories and words and sentences and monologues. I want to talk. Monday morning I had a running commentary of every thing in my head and it was directed (loosely) at David. At one point I started a sentence with ‘Hey, you know what I wonder?” Then I laughed and interrupted myself–I was talking so much that I interrupted myself–to finish the question with “I wonder if I can be quiet for a solid minute. No really, though, I was thinking about….”

At the beginning of August I was found The August Break 2013. I really liked it, since I had been super lame about posting anything interesting. It felt like an easy cop out for post ideas, at least until I figured out if I wanted to write on here anymore. I post what, three seven! pictures? Two more if you count instagram? Anyway, I posted photos for the first week-ish and then?

And then I never shut up.

My Mondays are really Slowdays

UPDATE!!! I checked my email right after posting this and had TWO emails from David about Diablo III which included no less than nine exclamation points. In case you thought the excitement was stemming from just me. It’s not.

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I always feel so lazy Monday mornings (and all you folks with M-F full time jobs can just glare and hate all you want. I don’t mind) because I always end up messing around on my computer and catching up on the internet’s weekend. My own weekend was spent playing Starcraft for 30% of the time, after a week full of two hours of Starcraft a day. David’s a huge fan and I’m getting into it, so we got a little absorbed last week. Then 65% playing Diablo II in preparation for THIS!! and 5% outside time with a dog park, bbq and a little grocery shopping.

It’s funny to see how excited David is for Diablo III because I remember yeeeeeears ago when I was a sophomore in college someone got me into playing Diablo I in order to advance to Diablo II (which ended up never working properly on my computer) because ZOMG DIABLO III photos were released! And people were angry about it! Because they were too… colorful? But they were so angry! But it was exciting! Because because because DIABLO III

I jest, I jest. Well, I mock but I mock out of love. I’m pretty excited abut Diablo III as well.

But all in all, this weekend was lazy as fuck. Oh and I worked on an art project. I haven’t done a reduction linocut since I took that one (and only. ever.) art class a few years ago, and it was a blast. After a few caves in Diablo we’d pause, I’d do a color or two, and we’d head back for more Diablo, then break for another color or two. Etc. I realized (after a friend made a (admittedly nice and not mean) comment about the amount of art hanging on our apartment’s walls) that our living room is slowly turning into a shrine of my art. Not exclusively mine, that is, but my stuff is definitely outnumbering the rest of it. I feel weird, like that’s some ego-filled shrine I’ve built for myself. But then I remember that one of the reasons I work on specific projects to hang up is so that I have cheap and easy art to hang on the walls.

This post seems like it’s rambled along enough. If you’re curious about the prints I was talking about, I plan on spending a couple hours scanning some recent things and posting them on tumblr. If nothing else, to at least make my tumblr account more than a constant repost of my blog. Because really, ew gross double posting.

Oh I remember something else. The other day I was walking Lyra and I looked up at the trees alongside the path and what in front of my wondering eyes should appear? Twenty-two crows sitting in one tree. All looking down at me. I looked to the left, and the power line held seven more. Coupled with the other nine ravens in surrounding trees.  I’m not lying because I was very careful to count every single one. How could I not?

It was terrifying, even having never watched Hitchcock’s Birds. We retreated without turning our backs on them and rushed back to the apartment.

This morning’s walk went much more smoothly. The only wildlife was the five squirrels playing freeze tag in the parking lot. Really they were only playing tag, but then one ran up to Lyra and realized what was happening and froze like a little statue. A tiny, furry statue.

Don’t talk to me. Basically, like ever.

Okay that’s not actually true. But unfortunately, it’s pretty close to true. What can I say? I’m a shy introvert, through and through.

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I’ve had one pair of sunglasses for about six years. They cost three dollars when I bought them, and I fully attribute their longevity to the fact that I live in one of the more overcast places in the country and that I don’t wear contacts. I wear them when I’m really desperate to keep people from approaching me, though, and I tend to have my headphones on as well. Because seriously, who approaches a girl with dark shades and headphones? At a bus stop? While reading a book?

People who are dicks, that’s who.

Like, one time I was on the bus reading. With headphones going. And this guy waved me down–like, walked to a seat in front of me and waved his hand in front of my face until I looked at him (I kept the headphones on). “What are you reading” he asked, and my response was holding my book in front of his face while still reading. People like that are douchebags, and that is the worst way to approach a girl who’s reading.

Anyway. The other day I was leaving a bookstore for an appointment. I was wearing my skull-print dress, brown tights and my studded faux-oxford-shoe-things. I also had my purse on my shoulder and a large moleskine art journal under my arm. Most importantly, I was wearing my headphones and my sunglasses. Why are all these details relevant? An older man stopped me. Like, physically moved in front of me so I couldn’t go around him, and asked if I worked there. I just stopped and stared. Do you work here, he asked again. I couldn’t help it (nor do I think I should have) but the snarkiest “uhhh no” came out of my mouth. My bitchy sixteen year old bratty self would have been so proud.

Because seriously–who does that? He even asked again–so you don’t work here? He looked disappointed. I ignored him and pushed my way past. I mean, even if I did work there, I clearly wasn’t on the clock, so fuck off dude! The help desk is a whopping five feet from where I was standing. No excuse.

It’s been too long since my last spider story

Don’t worry, there won’t be pictures. If you’re new (or if you just feel like reliving the horror) my other spider posts are here and here.

So when I moved into my first apartment, I was living all alone and it was glorious. My boyfriend at the time had keys to the place, though, and it was not uncommon for him to go to my apartment when his classes got out regardless of whether I was there or not. My place was closer than his and, as I mentioned, I didn’t have roommates. He did homework there, I guess, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter.

What is relevant is that whenever a spider surprised me, I would be super immature about it and trap it with a cup on the floor. A cup that I would then leave on the floor as I headed out to class, if I knew he was planning on stopping by. About five minutes before I figured he would arrive, I would send him a text letting him know that there was a present under the cup on the floor and that it was a spider.

This eventually got old, as you can imagine, and he let me know that he was pretty much done with dealing with my spiders. What a loser, huh? (I’m kidding, he was a great guy and suffered silently through my spider presents for like seven months)

So I turned to the next best thing–my freezer. I don’t know how this became the next best thing for me, but I expanded on my trapped cup method by flipping said cup and freezing the spider until it was safe to toss it in the toilet. The best part? I wouldn’t tell my boyfriend what was in the cups in the freezer. Because I’m evil like that. One time, because I am a twisted and strange person, I put the frozen spider in my ice tray and made a spider ice cube out of it. I mostly just did it because it freaked out every person who wanted to chill their drink. When I moved out, I totally left that ice tray in the back of the freezer. Because I’m twisted.

Fast forward to last night, when I was cooking dinner, and a hobo sider appeared on the wall right above the counter. After I shit a brick I grabbed a mason jar and tried the whole freezer technique. It worked great, except when David came home and I had to explain the process to him. He might think I’m even crazier than I used to be, but that’s fine. He the one responsible for unthawing it before the flush.

The August Break: Taste

Update: uuuuuugh it works perfectly everywhere except when I actually post. Click the image to see what I’m talking about.
Taste

Lunch with my sister was the magic jolt I needed to get out of my funk. Yay! Anyway, as for the prompt taste, well… After a recent photo session with David, he voiced the opinion that I don’t share enough of my goofy nature. These photos catch a pretty good taste of what it’s like, so here you go.

The August Break 2013