what if, at some point before, you and i had stood at the top of a great cliff? and looking down, we would see waiting the earthly life we had yet to live. but supposing, that they hadn't told us that we could jump together, but once we reached the bottom, we wouldn't begin it together? that part of the wonder of our love was that we would have an adventure in finding each other again? that to give us more story, we would be separated, and that part of the fun of the jumping off was that we would have the surprise and the joy and the wonder of reuniting.

i think we did.

and that's why i'm so bewildered by cliffs. because i haven't always stood there alone.

that might be why i feel like my right side is always empty.

The March and April Editions

god and don't you remember black-lined stockings? those dark tights, or maybe not-so-dark, with that obvious black line up your calf. you hoped you had great legs, hoped that those dark lines emphasized and drew attention in the best way. the only problem was that you had to keep those lines straight, damn it all. adjusting, readjusting. that was the real test of your sexiness, how straight your lines were....

and above all, i just love photography. well not above all. but above fashion, that's for damn sure. and none of that messy shit, either. but nothing contrived--nothing stilted. but damn! don't tell me... that girls never brush their hair like that, or that they actually wear green lipstick. or if they do--don't try to sell me that they're comfortable that way. and how do they feel in the morning? when everything is smeared to the right, when those low-slung pants are riding their ass-crack? it can't be comfortable. there's something to be said for stretching out and feeling like the only constriction is how close the line is between shadow and sun...

can we please stop pretending that boys are girls and that real men like feeling like a woman?

silly little me

so normally i try to post something on here that's a tad more intelligent or has depth to it than what i'm about to say, but i'm desperate. anyone i would normally 'gush' this to is probably sleeping, and i'm not really the kind that likes to 'gush' anyway. so no 'gushing'. 'gush'-free. so please, forgive the next few lines of teen-aged girly giggliness.

tonight, clayton and i made a real connection. did we talk? of course not! our 'connection', such as it was, consisted mostly of various facial movements directed at one another. the climax of the night? when he strolled past me, and lifted his eyebrows. (as i type this, i begin to realize how absolutely ridiculous this would have sounded had i actually tried to communicate this to anyone!) it wasn't the motion, honestly. it's not that big of a deal, i realize. it was the look in his eyes as he did it, it was the way my heart stuttered and how all of a sudden, i felt like i was a teen again--out of my league and out of my depth.

so not much. but enough to make it a great night. it always is, though, whenever he's there.

Romantic Only In Retrospection

there is a certain romance to things--candlelight, fire, stars, roses--these are the ones that spring to mind to so many. But i find that magic in so many other things as well--my warm bed in my cold room, how my feet feel when i pull off my shoes, or how my clean shirts smell like laundry soap when i first pull them on. when i was younger, i thought that romance was something you experienced in the moment.

now, i don't want to discount those moments when i'm in the middle of something incredible, and i think "i don't want to lose this memory--this is too good, this is too full of life. i love this, i want to live in this forever i will remember this forever" but the older i get, it seems that most of the romanticism to life is actually found in retrospect.

for example--there are definitely moments from my time at camp eagle that i know were romantic--the interns and mer lying on crash pads, watching the lightning storm, or lying with Sarah in the hammock at mi casa, listening to the wind chimes. but i'm finding that being able to say "the camp i worked at for 15 months" is also romantic. it didn't seem that way at the beginning...but now it seems that having done it, 'accomplished' it, is in itself something.

having learned this and believed this all, i thought it would be romantic to work in a delicatessen. it sounds cool, sounds like a job that would give some credibility. but the truth is so much grimier, so much wetter, so much more crude and embarrassing and frustrating sometimes. i don't like the guys i work with--they do nothing but ogle the girls and ask incredibly inappropriate questions of a sexual nature. the work is boring and my body is beginning to protest--just ask my right shoulder as it pops every time i slice. i get wet and disgusting by the end of the shift.

(however, there is a boy. in produce. who makes my heart ache a little bit, whose smile makes it skip. who likes to stare at me. but that's only trivial, in the long run. unless he does something about it--then i wouldn't call it trivial.)

two jobs is not fun--even if the money helps out a lot. but i don't believe it should be just about the money. i don't like either one of them, actually. and school is alright, but not what i wanted to be doing at this point in my life--didn't i already do this, so i wouldn't have to be working this hard in life? what i can't get over is the feeling that i want my life to be romantic and real while i'm living it, not when i'm reliving it.

sometimes i just want to run away from my life. i almost did it last night. i almost just picked up my keys and walked away from this. the thought is invigorating, honestly. leave behind all financial obligations, and just drive away--no two weeks notice, no 'last shift', no rent check or utitilies bills. i'd go to LA or somewhere. yeah, LA. i'd drive right up to paramount, and demand that they give me an audition and then a character spot. i'd prove i belong there. and i wouldn't have to worry about how the purpose i was created for and the purpose i'm serving now in now way remotely resemble each other. damnit.

although.

there are still times here, in this too-small apartment with one loveseat and sink flies, where i'm glad this is my life. where i can lie on my floor and listen to an old vinyl. that's nice. it's kind of funny how i can't shut my oven without all the spices falling off the back ("Dammit!"). actually, it's not very funny at all.

but doesn't it sound romantic?

if there's one thing i've always wanted, it's got to be beautiful hands. elegant fingers, slim palms, tapering nails. it's not what i've got, and nail polish only makes me look cheap and chubby-fingered. i try anyway, sometimes. and so while my left hand is disastrous because the nail wand is like a drunk driver, my right hand is unbearable to look at--i'm right handed, so attempting to paint with my left hand is laughable.

memories are moments you don't get back

the first night of my summer '07 roadtrip (with the Lonehollow crew), we spent it on Mustang Island down by South Padre. we simply laid down a tarp between the two vehicles and crammed our sleeping bags together. i remember singing lullabies because i couldn't sleep, and i definitely thought everyone else was. the stars were exceptional that night--clear skies and endless space. the next morning, i woke up to the sun rising over the ocean. it was simply breathtaking. then we discovered jared had rolled over onto a sand crab in the night, crushing it underneath him. we were camped next to more than a few sand crab pits.

when i was still in high school my grammy showed up at my house about 8 'clock at night with an enormous bottle of wine under her arm. her and my mother then proceeded to drink the entire bottle. it is the only time i've ever seen my mother drunk--or the first time i saw what my grandmother would do when a situation was slipping beyond her control. my father and i followed her home, because although "she wasn't in-bree-bree-ated"...we still worried. i wish i could sit in my kitchen with my grandmother again. i wish i had known then that you don't get moments like that again.

this last week 3 year old ryland tried to play with both shoes untied. i bent down and tied them for him. when i looked up at him, without a word he simply lent forward and gave me the sweetest little-boy kiss. my heart melted a little bit.

Kristen Stewart.

Ellen Page.

Jesse Eisenberg.

Jena Malone.

Kat Dennings.

Michael Cera.

Michael Angarano.

Shia Lebeouf.

Anna Kendrick.

Anton Yelchin.

We need more old-world charm, a little more pride and work ethic to find it's way back into Hollywood. Where's the sophisticated, understated threat and emotion?