Spare Portions

I go to Southern Utah to see the desertous landscapes.
Eight hundred ninety-nine photographs later,
I return with some other details.

Yeah, My Math Class is Fun, I Guess

A Question

How do photographers survive?

I significantly lack in the area called "storage" on my computer.

No matter how many pictures I back up and remove from the mechanism.

Some Truths

Some truths:

Human beings are amazing creatures, and occasionally I glance out the thin piece of glass lodged in the middle of my bedroom's outermost wall (frequently referred to as a "window") so I can watch them as they strut through the parking lot.

I do not like days called Monday any more than an iceberg likes Ecuador in the summer.

I hate texting. More than an iceberg hates Ecuador in the summer.

But,

I text anyway. Often.

Oftentimes I tell people what they want to hear.

It's not that I hate math. It's that math hates me.

If my nails are painted, I will chip the paint off if I am not distracted by something else. I don't care if it's the greatest nail polish in the world, I don't care if it's clear, invisible, or whatever else. If I get the chance to look at my hands, I will find entertainment in my nail polish.

I hate labels.

I do not enjoy being told that I need to eat more. It's awkward. 

Photography is my favorite medium of art. It is simple and fast.

Poetry is my favorite medium of writing. It is simple and fast.

I used to hate poetry. Very, very much.

Blogging is one of my favorite things. Welcome to my brain, world. Now, without further ado, let me explore your brain. It is just a great concept. So everyone go write a blog post so I can read it.

Sleep Tight

It's weird that sometimes people are scared to sleep, in fear of what they will dream. It's a strange concept. Someone fearing their own imagination, and all. 

It's weird that people have little to no control over the content and layout of their nighttime slideshows. 

It's weird that when I am having a good dream and then I wake up in the middle of it, I want to fall back asleep to finish it. But wouldn't it be the same to simply imagine the ending while I am awake, rather than when I am asleep? Whether I am awake or not, it is still my imagination, right? Right. So why is closure not so available when I imagine an ending to a dream in an awake sort of manner?

I will have to ponder the matter a bit more as I snooze tonight.

Sweet dreams.

Genre Called "Music"

On occasion, I listen to music.

The word "occasion" here means "whenever I am located within the premises of my bedroom's four walls".

Yesterday, I was lying upon my cement slab (some people would refer to it as a "bed"), and my roommate walked in. She was basically mortified at the fact that my speakers were not chirping off some tune. 

She nearly had a heart attack.

I had to give her a paper bag to breathe into.

I have to keep paper bags handy around these here parts. In the case of when I am not listening to music, or something. It works out.

You have likely heard of Pandora, correct? I normally call it "Pandy", since we're on a nickname-basis, and all. Pandora is a station of magic. "Magic" here means "tunes". It basically plays a radio of songs that you are likely to enjoy. So, during my time of Pandy-listening, I would occasionally bookmark certain songs that were exceptionally fantastic. Or even just plain fantastic, when I was feeling generous.

So, the bookmarked songs accumulated over time. And then I discovered Grooveshark. I was hesitant at first, but I came to appreciate the freedom it had to offer. 

Then I remembered the dusty, bookmarked songs hanging around Pandy. And I had an idea.

I went through and made a playlist of my bookmarked songs, Pandora style. On Grooveshark. 

And now I have a conglomeration of music that I listen to virtually every day. It has a variety of jams that are quite agreeable to a variety of moods.

So if you want, sneak a peek. (Pardon the cliché.) Here's my playlist. (Hint: Above the list of songs, click "Play All".) It may be that you will enjoy it. 

Bottled

Let's bottle up our thoughts, please, and store them in our brains.

Conclusion

I have come to the conclusion that indecision is as harmless as lightly hitting a jackhammer's 'On' button while standing in a pit of grenades.

Something's Missing

To start off, here is the state of my headphones at present.
I used to be able to stick it back together, stick it in my ear, and then listen to my sanity-stabilizer.

Now when I stick it back together and stick it in my ear:



Silence.

It's really not a problem. I definitely have the tolerance for listening to music one-eared.

Did you know that Apple headphones are like thirty bucks?
But never fear. Amazon.com loves me, sometimes. So my two-dollar, first generation iPod headphones are being shipped at this moment.


Anyway.

Last night I returned to my town of educational purposes. I unpacked after the couple-hour drive. Got ready for bed. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Then, I looked at my desk and saw this:

Now, you need to understand. It is not an abnormal thing for light bulbs to be lounging on my desk.

But when I saw this particular light bulb, my jaw dropped. And I stared. And I blinked. And I likely blinked again.

Rest in peace, decor. Rest in peace.

Movie Credits

If your life was a movie,

who would be in your credits?

Paternal Parental

My dad has some philosophies.

Figmentalist
     One who believes that we are all figments of our own imaginations

Frisbeterian
     A person who believes that when you die, your soul goes on the roof and no one can get it down

Leafing

      Leaving, leaving, leaves
      But bound to bloom back

Anticipation flutters its lashes,         

Putting on a show for a quick return.

I hope the fluttering works.

Hippie

This evening, my twelve year-old sister tied a thick, gold ribbon around her head and made a declaration about being a hippie.

She didn't even read my last post.

I didn't even say anything to her about being a hippie.

It just runs in her blood, basically.

Save Them Grass

My twelve year-old sister just got in from walking home from school.

       "Dad! Can we turn the sprinklers on?"
       "No."
       "Why not? The grass is dying!"
       "Because it's not time to have the sprinklers on."
       "Then I'll use the hose."
Then I came into the conversation.
       "You're not going to use the hose."
       "Then I'll use a bucket."
       "No, the grass doesn't need water. It's been drowning in snow all winter."
       "But sometimes the water from the snow doesn't go to the grass."
       "The grass doesn't need to be watered."

She wasn't satisfied with that, much.

I am glad the world contains hippie sisters who avidly support the vitality of grass and worms.

Lanterned

I like
That you need a light
To make a dark
Shadow

Mellow

I want to clear things up.

It is spelled "marshmallow".

The letter e is the most commonly used letter in the alphabet.

But that doesn't mean that loopty-loop vowel makes an appearance in every word.

Save Them Worms

My twelve year-old sister just got in from walking home from school.

       'There are hundreds of worms out there dying!'

It has been raining today. So the worms had a rain dance that obviously resulted in failure. All over the sidewalk.

She has been ranting and raving about the 'evil ninth-graders' who step on the pathetic sickos. And the fact that if it weren't for the worms, we wouldn't be eating fresh fruit.

       So I wonder if I would still be able to eat dried mangoes and canned peaches, if it weren't for the worms.

But that is beside the point.

She continued shouting with self-declared authority as she marched down the stairs to retrieve a bucket that would become the worms' lifeboat.

And then my dad explained that worms do that, sometimes. And that it's just life. Or death, as the case may be. Even though I already tried to explain that to her. She doesn't think I am a very reliable source, apparently.


She is currently distracted by a novel. The worms are currently remaining on the sidewalk.

Distraction runs in the family.

It's Just That Way

The thing about haircuts is that you just know there will be some awkward conversing going on. And you just know you will be pelted with inquiries that you just do not care to answer. But you just push through it because that is how life goes, sometimes.

And then you think that maybe instead of being asked all the questions, what if you asked the hairdresser all the questions?

But then you realize that's weird, and that it is the hairdresser's job to make the unnatural conversation.

That would be like asking your therapist the questions.

       'And... how does that make you feel? What can you change to make your situation better?'

You know, that just does not really work out for me.

So I am basically looking forward to tomorrow's unnatural conversing.

Let Us Bob Our Heads, Up and Down

Many people find my stages of obsessing over musicians exhausting.

I find my stages of obsessing over musicians exhilarating.

I have had many of those stages.

There was the Stacie Orrico stage. The Kelly Clarkson stage. The Fray. OneRepublic. Travis, mixed in someplace in the list. The Hush Sound. Aqualung, somewhere in there. Ben Folds also folded someplace in there. Coldplay. And a newly-developing appreciation for Weezer.

Butholdonasec.

Coldplay.

There are times when I am doing my homework. Those times are not often. But they exist. Sometimes. And sometimes I can't concentrate with music playing. Other times, I can. If I force myself to concentrate.

You know what? When I listen to Coldplay, I don't even have to force myself to concentrate. It just blends in with my brain.

Music and brain. Hand-in-hand.

I think that is why I love Coldplay so much; because the music can coexist with my thoughts without any stress or struggle.

So, let us all join hands and listen to more Coldplay.

And etcetera.