Awkward that this is going to be dramatic.

Greetings.

Not a lot has happened recently.

For the most part, I do the things I always complain about doing: studying, complaining (it is a vicious cycle), wishing I was better at doing human things, enduring the countless intrusions of existential crises (I have a problem, and it is the universe), and in the thick of those things, eating a lot of vegetables and going through a horde of tea bags. Ever so slowly proceeds the transformation that will one day have me waking up as a mom.

Until then, I have a few projects (that makes things sound way more official than they are; I mean actual school projects that were assigned to me by responsible adults dictating what makes up my education, and then maybe one teeny tiny lifelong dream) that I’m cranking out; one is a Wikipedia article on an obscure virus (SO FUN, RIGHT?), two are art projects due next week that I have yet to start or visualize, and…oh. Well I guess another is the planning of THE ULTIMATE GAP YEAR that will begin next May. And then I should probably decide which graduate schools I’m applying to, and for what field of study, and why I care about science so much. I’m going to assume I also have papers to write. And finals. And eager preparations for Christmas.

The primary thing that I am allowing to dance around in my brain that isn’t necessarily constructive is the idea of starting another blog, which makes me…less sad than I thought I’d be, but still sad. (Posting this here is really the ultimate betrayal. What is wrong with me.) I’m considering it for a variety of reasons, which…do you care enough for me to talk about this? Should I list them? I’ll list them. I’m sorry if this is a self-absorbed thing to do, but I guess a blog kind of is in general, so…what the heck.

REASONS RELATED TO BLOG-SWITCHING

The primary reason that fuels my consideration for this switch is that as much as I love the washing machines and the freedom that comes with this space, this blog is not professional. And if I’m ever going to write things that are, you know, worthy of publishing, or profound, or even rant-y or frilly or ridiculous, word on the street is you need a blog, and you need blog traffic—basically, you need establishment—and this isn’t going to get me to a place where I would be able to write a book, or poetry, or…movie reviews…or…I don’t know? Contribute to society, maybe? Perhaps it’s a lofty assumption to say that me blogging would be able to do something like that, but I figured I’d give it a shot, because (this is where the teeny tiny lifelong dream part comes in) I’ve never been 100% sure of what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I’ve always wanted to write a book.

And darn it, I want it to be a good one.

So I need practice. And establishment.

The secondary reason is that as freeing as it is to be vicious and dorky like I am here, when I am here, I also feel weird about being the rest of me, who, despite how it may seem, is usually a pretty nice person. Not that people need to absorb every facet of my personality; that’s really not a concern. I do not do that thing where I present the pure essence of my spirit over the internet. Bits and pieces of it, I guess. I just think, I don’t know, it could be cool to be able to try to say something of a different tone than what usually is here (verbose leakings of frustration; leakings cannot be pluralized, so take note, English speakers), maybe? I don’t know. The mumblings are definitely a favorite form of verbal expression but I think it would be the good kind of challenging to try to branch out.

The tertiary reason (yeah, I went all the way, watch out) is more of what this post is about in a holistic sense (sorry for the long weird personal diversion—although, again, I guess that’s JUST WHAT A BLOG IS), and that is that the title, as…catchy? (it’s not catchy) as it is, it is also…mildly self-deprecating. And I’ve been wondering about this for a while, and while I love that it is a familiar entity (ish) and my friends know what it’s called, the more…that I am learning about myself, the more I am thinking questioningly about this, which I think means it’s not a weird burst of self-assertion (which can be good, just not right now), but…like, an actual thing. And while I think honesty about yourself, even when it means making fun of yourself, is not necessarily bad, I’m not sure anymore how healthy it is to write and write and write out the ideations of my soul and all of my vulnerable venting—read: this is the only place I really feel comfortable expressing anger—and then plastering them under a title that says, “None of this actually matters.”

You know?

Because if I’m writing as much as I am and ignoring as much homework as I usually am to do so (thanks college), I think that means I want it to matter.

So that, in a not-so-short way, is the gist of that.

And honestly, that makes things harder, because I can’t just shift to a new space under the same pretense. Like, how am I supposed to name another blog? Especially one that I want to encapsulate at least the first few years of my adulthood, but hopefully the entire scope of humanity. (That is a joke to express the concept that I have too many elaborate plans fueled by obsessive planning; also, I am building it up so much. Watch this all fall very flat. How embarrassing.) But honestly. That is a frazzlement (not a real word) in and of itself. It has to bear some representation of my involvement, and it has to explain what I want to do with it, but then it has to be artsy and vague. It can’t just be “Lydia’s blog. Proceed for fun jokes.” No one would read it.

Well. I would read it. And I would laugh a lot.

This is kind of a useless wad of information for anyone who isn’t myself, but all of that basically comes down to the sentiments that have been drawn out for this search for a new name for my blog, or a name for my new blog, or whatever the crud is happening. I have found that all of the names that have been popping into my head have implied one very specific characteristic, and that characteristic is unsurety, and that is…not a word? Really? Today is rough. The lack of surety. Is that better, SpellCheck? Oh now it’s a fragment. Of course it is.

Anyway. I realized this in conjunction with the blog-name-research I did, comparisons of my ideas, or my fragments of potential maybe-ideas, with very famous blogs as well as the blogs of people who go to my school and are more popular and inspiring than I am. And all of those titles had a lot of surety. Even blogs like “A Beautiful Mess” are saying conclusively that the mess is beautiful. My mess is a mess because it is not beautiful. It’s fine that yours is, but I’m guessing that it is beautiful because it’s a pile of craft supplies and food scraps. My messes involve uncontrollable emotions and dirty laundry. (I don’t really read that blog, so I have no idea what their messes are, but I do know they blog a lot about crafting and cooking, so I thought it was a solid guess.) And then there are all these blogs that involve the term or idea of “adventure,” a perfectly good word and a perfectly normal obsession that is dominating my age group at this second; I don’t make snap judgments about millennials as a whole because I am not a sociologist, but I will tell you that as a group, I would guess that a goal of ours would be to inspire people. And that is fine, and one of the ways we want to do this is through “adventures” and living in a way that makes everything seem like an “adventure.” I for one think that is good and useful and lovely, but that is not what I want to pool my writing under. You know? (For reference, I know someone who has the world “adventure” in her blog title, and I blog about school, and she blogs about social injustice. There is an obvious disparity. So of course I admire her and her writing and her attitude, but I’m not going to start a blog that says, “Everything I do is cool!” because I think it is unlikely that I will do a whole horde of cool things and then only blog about those, and even if I do, I don’t want that pressure.)

And I know “life is an adventure” or something but it’s really not. It’s not right now. I am in my pajamas before 11:30. Life is not an adventure. If I am blogging, it’s because life is short on pizzazz. From a comparative perspective (a.k.a., almost always a bad one) my life just isn’t as fancy as some people’s. But I like it.

So I take the lack of surety and I’m going to run with it, because I think that’s just what Lydia does. I appreciate beauty and boldness, but I thrive in tension and complications and awkward situations. Not that I always do the right thing, but…I try. For some people life is a big, bursting, bubbling buffet (I did not mean to make that alliteration and am kind of embarrassed), but for me, life is a constant search to find food to make a meal out of. Sometimes you have well-crafted stories that are really precisely measured and zesty, and sometimes you have beautiful poems with frosting on top and cream in the middle. But for me, a lot more of life happens  during the weeks you forget to go grocery shopping and all you have is Ramen, or the evenings when you try to make something new and it ends up a little too spicy and weirdly crunchy. Occasionally, it happens on the days when you’re aimlessly searching for something to snack on and find something molding in the back corner of a cupboard.

And if there’s anything I learned here, it’s that none of those days are meaningless.

fin.

Choose your own flashback.

Here is the story:

In theory, the past two weeks have involved two of exactly the same thing, but in reality, the events could not have been more different. Both were called “homecoming,” but one was for my high school, and the other was for my college. (Yes! Colleges do indeed have homecoming. Fear not; I myself also have to be reminded of that every year, and am fairly certain I only wrote this parenthetical addendum for my own sake. You were probably already completely aware. If you read the past few sentences in a British accent, you will get to exactly where I am mentally right now. Maybe don't.) In that sense, they were polar opposites. But technically they both were football games attended by people with similar educational backgrounds who paid in small bills for snacks out of tiny buildings.

Perhaps it is only in my mind that they are significantly different, but allow me to proceed.

I despised high school, with a profuse loathing that probably was born out of severe emotional instability and what I did not realize was the need for some level of privacy. It was a small private school, but if you had even the most minor of issues, let me tell you, it was anything but small or private. In that phase of my life, I also found a lot of my worth in things I should not have (appearances, accomplishments, grades, boys...mostly boys. Mostly I cried a lot and was confused as to why everyone else had a boyfriend and I didn’t. Things to consider: probably because I cried a lot.)

Anyway. My senior year I was on homecoming court (I realize that my description of myself does not support such a statement, but the clincher was probably that I also tried very hard to be nice to everyone, which is almost all you can do for the world when you’re seventeen) and I actually think it may have been one of the top ten best days of my life. I feel as if I should be ashamed but that is the honest truth. I wore a sparkly blue dress that my college friends would be embarrassed to have been in the same store as and I got my hair done (!?) (it was also a waste of money), and when my friend won queen we went back to her van and ate Jack in the Box fries with the boys who escorted us. And honestly, I only threw that factoid in there because if you knew me as I am right now you would know I am the farthest thing from a homecoming princess, and am very nerdy and so, so painfully introverted (probably too much emotional scarring from high school, honestly), have recently decided Augustine’s Confessions is one of my absolute favorite books, and am spending Saturday night BLOGGING ON MY COUCH AND EATING MUESLI CEREAL WITH MY HANDS BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO STUDY VIRUS REPLICATION. Whatever. Now you know.

I went back to high school homecoming freshman year of college, and by the end of that school year, when I realized most of my relationships with those people were slowly turning into awkward waves when I saw them at the mall, I vowed never to go back.

This became difficult when my big little brother became a football star. It runs in our family (my dad’s side) to be good at things but to be best known for ridiculous commentary thrown in on the side. But big little brother made it work for him. He played wide receiver (that also runs on my dad’s side), and he caught a plethora of touchdown passes, and then I had to go to watch him catch them, which did not do a lot for my aura of aloofness, but promised to be temporary. Unfortunately, as big little brother ended his final high school season, baby little brother also discovered his talent for catching touchdown passes, which is why I find myself, far more often than I would hope, sitting in some corner of my high school feeling nauseous and angry and mildly supportive of my siblings’ athletic efforts, all at once, even though none of them ever showed any enthusiasm at my choir concerts.

And now big little brother plays for my college, so basically I am eternally tied to my past. I guess it comes with being a trailblazer. Fortunately, college homecomings aren’t nearly as bad. Our marching band wears weird hats, but that’s really the only issue. This year my past roommate Camille was on homecoming court so I attended to support her and my brother standing on the sidelines for their respective purposes.

And thus we come to the meat of the matter. The mention of college homecoming was just to give me a good reason to write this late, and the entire intro was to release some of the bitterness that is rooted in my past (common theme) as well as to prove that I had a very good excuse for attending my high school’s homecoming THREE YEARS after I graduated (talented relatives, familial obligations, etc.). The post I wanted to write last week was “Things you find yourself thinking at your high school homecoming,” and I think that the inspirational ideas are probably still somewhere back there, so…

Things you find yourself thinking (and in moments of indiscretion, speaking) at your high school's homecoming:

(for reference, picture a very nervous squirrel reacting strongly to every possible stimulant, but only expressing it facially. This is what the evening most likely resembled.)

"Why am I here?"

"No, but really, why? I am literally the only person here from my class who is not coaching something."

"Why am I doing this to myself?"

"I came here to see my freaking brother and my brother came to seem my freaking brother but of course, neither of them are even talking to me. He can't even play. He has a concussion. He is sitting on the sidelines ignoring me. Obviously I'm more important than your lame friends who probably only ever talk about lame things...like...Halo...!"

"Do people play Halo anymore?"

"AM I OBSOLETE?"

"HAVE I ALREADY PEAKED?"

"I HAVE ALREADY PEAKED."

"Okay slow down. Half the things that half these kids spend all their energy on I can do legally and they can't. Plus look at them. They're all so tiny. All of them are either continuing or ending their awkward stage, and almost none of them know what to do with their arms."

"Do I know what to do with my arms?"

"Has it only been ten minutes?"

"REMEMBER THAT GUY? WHY IS HE HERE? REMEMBER HOW OLD HE WAS WHEN I WAS SO YOUNG? HE WAS IN THAT PLAY. I NEVER TALKED TO HIM. HE'S PROBABLY FORTY AND HE STILL COMES I CAN'T BE THAT BAD."

"If he was a senior when I was a freshman..."

"(math)"

"He is twenty-four. Or twenty-five. He is in his twenties."

"WE ARE EQUALS."

"Oh my GOSH, how long does it take a mother to buy snacks?"

"Why am I here?"

"I went here?"

"I went to this school."

"No wonder I have so many problems."

"Remember how fun these things used to be? Remember how grown up we felt? Is that really how old we are? This is embarrassing. We were four feet tall. Who did we even think we were?"

"Am I the only person here who didn't bring a date?"

"Who brings a date to their high school homecoming? What would you say? 'Yeah I went here for four years, did a lot of algebra, felt bad about myself, casual.'"

"Is this what reunions will be like?"

"How do reunions even happen?"

"IS THAT MY RESPONSIBILITY"

(I was senior class president (no one else ran), so it is, in fact, my responsibility. I remember this every few months and experience this series of emotions every time.)

"NO"

"I CAN'T FACE THEM LIKE THIS"

"I USED TO BE SO MUCH BETTER"

"I HAVE TO MOVE"

"Move? Hm. That thought was extreme."

"Maybe I could just face the fact that everyone values different things, and that I like myself better now, and that I decided I valued genuine relationships and formative life experiences instead of appearing cool."

"Maybe I could go to grad school and then make everyone call me 'Dr. Lydia'."

"Hm."

"...'Doctor Lydia'..."

"Ugh Mom finally."

"Ugh NO WAIT MOM DON'T TALK TO THEM THEY'LL KNOW I CAME."

"Ugh why is this the worst thing I've ever done."

"Ew, why am I sixteen again. Pull it together, self. You are an adult. You paint your own nails and you pay for things with money you do not have. You are better than this."

"Ugh MOM classic Mom making a million friends and taking forever."

"Hey, that guy! I knew him. Nope, I did not know him. Just went to a tiny high school where you knew everybody and pretended you didn't. Too much."

"Oh, I kind of knew her."

"I should hide."

"Okay, really, I went here?"

"This is ridiculous."

"This homecoming court. So clean-cut. So youthful."

"I don't even go here and I know who's going to win homecoming queen."

"Yep."

"At least the game is interesting."

"See, high school football is so much better than any other kind of football, because everything that happens is more of a surprise. All the other levels are so well-oiled and pristine. An NFL team getting to the Superbowl is just as exciting as one of our receivers actually catching the ball."

"Why am I here?"

"UGH finally over."

"UGH have to sing the song. Have to salute the school. Have to be the only lame person from my class who went to homecoming three years later because everyone else is thriving and successful and turned super hot and I still do things for my little brothers."

"Granted, they are superior little brothers."

"Okay, this song is ridiculous, and no one is singing it. This is so embarrassing."

"I am experiencing a very intense form of sympathetic embarrassment and would like this to stop."

"MY FIRST STRENGTH IS EMPATHY MAKE IT STOP."

"IT'S OVER."

"The game is over."

"That wasn't even that bad."

"I did something brave!"

"I AM BRAVE!"

"UGH Mom's gone. She left me."

"Probably never coming back. Probably forgot I existed. Like everyone else from high school having a vibrant, full life unlike me, just moping around college and making it sound like I did something funny in my stupid blog."

"I should probably blog about this."

"Too bad Mom left and I'm going to die here."

fin.

Some bitterness leaks forth.

GREETINGS.

Today is not bad. I have had, overall, a fairly pleasant week, in case you were concerned about my well-being. Some people feel that way after reading things I present on the internet. A lot of good things have happened this week (I painted, I Skyped friends, I learned), and I would say, in one quick snapshot, the vibe of the week was definitely more to the positive side than the negative.
I do, however, have some pressure to release, so it's not going to sound like that.

FIRST OF ALL.
I just want everyone to know that I am very happy at my university of choice, and I would recommend it to anyone who was sincerely interested. (Although I am deeply in debt, so that is something to consider; the jury is still out on whether eternal poverty is going to be worth it.) I'm also sure everyone is aware that no matter where you go, you're going to end up getting screwed over in at least one sense. Not everything is going to work out for you. It's all part of growing up, apparently.

At my school, I study primarily under the Department of Biology & Chemistry (that is a pretty sick ampersand, I must admit), probably because my major is biology. Under that department, there are a great many hugely intelligent and extremely (borderline obsessively) driven people. They are great, mostly. They are also 90% pre-med. Which is fine. I was pre-med at one point. I just like to pretend I am better than everyone else (spoiler: my persistent vanity will be a theme of this post) because I changed my mind. I just think being a doctor would clash with my aura. Plus people's guts really only interest me in theory. Actual interaction with them would be a nightmare and a half. It's the difference between, "Hey, did you know your body could do that? What a cool thought! We are so interesting," versus, "Whoa, check out this lung I am slicing into! This dead person's liver feels so grainy! I will squash it about instead of honoring their passing! People are the sum of their parts! I am abnormally attracted to bloody wads of flesh!"

Sorry. That's not what it actually means. I have also heard some of the motivation of aspiring doctors stems from one day helping people recover from disease. Or being obscenely wealthy and overly esteemed.
That part at least is understandable.

So I did this cool thing where I changed my "emphasis" (still not sure what that means) to Ecology, which is the study of nature and its workings, essentially, and will lead to a life of professional hippie-dom, hopefully. Do you ever hear people say things like "those crazy environmentalists" when they need a scapegoat for an inconvenience, like a washing machine that uses minimal water and therefore provides untrustworthy cleaning abilities? If it all works out, someday they'll be referring to future Lydia.
Yay.

But genuinely, being one of the minimal percentage that is not interested in human or medical or molecular science, sometimes I feel a little alone in my pursuits. Especially on those days when you're feeling a little nervous about the future and everyone else in the research lab is like, "Sorry, I'm too busy wanting to be a doctor to validate you."  Granted, my outdoorsy interests helped me to do cool things like study in Michigan at an environmental institute this summer, which was super fun and exciting, which you never would have guessed because my posts were so dang angsty (dangsty), BUT what good are those experiences when no one else wants to be jealous of them?
I'M KIDDING. A little bit.

The reason I dig up all this deep-set frustration is because this summer my little environment-loving heart found itself entwined around a plant biology class and I allowed myself to become very excited about it and very interested in it WHICH APPARENTLY YOU SHOULD NEVER DO BECAUSE THE WORLD ONLY WANTS TO HURT YOU and then one day I got an email that said, "Not enough people were weird enough to want to be interested in vegetative life, so we cancelled the class. Happy trails!" and I just said, "Oh whatever, I get it! It's cool! Super casual, who needs plants, not like they produce oxygen or nutritional sustenance or anything!" but inside I fell to the ground dramatically and whimpered.
The only other class options were neurobiology (neuro = brain = people guts = no), vertebrate biology (vertebrates = sometimes people = cadaver dissections = DEAD PERSON = CHOPPING UP A DEAD PERSON = @#?&%$ NO) and virology (viruses = not people and/or guts = well alright). Because while I don't want to spend the rest of my life as a pasty lab worker who never sees the sun and never actually can physically see the individual organisms participating in my lab work without expensive machines assisting my vision, the biology of tiny things is interesting. So I took virology.
And I am learning plenty.
PLENTY.
For example.

Did you know that if you get herpes in your nose (do not ASK me how that happens; to that factoid I remain blissfully oblivious) it can go to your brain? And kill you?

Also, did you know bunnies can get a virus that causes them to grow long, tentacle-like tumors that spout forth from their body at random places, and according to my professor, "Usually the tumors are benign, so it's not that bad," to which I respond, "Nope not disturbed at all! Thanks for the knowledge!" but if you think about it, DO YOU THINK THOSE RABBITS WILL EVER FIND LOVE? DO YOU THINK THEY WILL EVER BE ACCEPTED BY THEIR FAMILIES? DO YOU THINK THEY ARE SATISFIED WITH HOW THEIR LIVES HAVE TURNED OUT?

And finally, did you know that when mad cow disease was entering its season as an epidemic, no one understood its transmission, and one bad cow would ruin the whole batch (so to speak) so the farmers just had to set all their cows on fire? And then they probably all committed suicide because they lost all of their well-being? Also the reason the cows got this disease is because they were being fed the bone marrow of diseased sheep, even though cows are and always have been supposed to eat grass? Also some insensitive soul thought it would useful to take pictures?

That last little niblet of knowledge is what I learned on Friday, and so I showed up to my last class of the day practically in tears; my roommate (Sarah) fanned me with her class outline and I said, "I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE LEARNING ABOUT LEAVES TURNING SUNSHINE INTO FOOD," and, "THEY FED THE COWS SHEEP," and, "I JUST WANTED TO LEARN ABOUT FLOWERS," and she was very nice to me and nodded a lot sympathetically, but...I feel as if I was a little further over the edge than I needed to be.
That, in far too many far too dramatic words, was the darkest stain on my week.

As I said, it wasn't too bad overall (believable), but I also wanted to complain about one other thing (honest): this morning, I woke up to a text from the mother of the high schooler I tutor in biology that said they found a new tutor for her who could meet them at their house. Which is understandable and fine, however abrupt and unexpected, and considering that driving to a location nearer to me was difficult for the girl, I don't mind. So I sent them a very gracious text concerning the change of plans, that read, more or less, 

"You're great! Thanks for your time! Best of luck in all your pursuits! Happy you found something that works for you! I am cool and collected!"

but probably should have read,

"OMG totes no worries! Thanks for all the good times! Like when I could never drive to you because I don't have a car because it's at home being repaired from the accident I got into on my way to meet your offspring at Starbs for a session she cancelled half an hour before! Probs so inconvenient for you. I wish I had feelings and could understand."

Whatever.
Obviously people can do whatever they want. They, then, can do what they want with the new tutor (who was unwise to meet them at their house, I mean they happen to be safe people, but to promise that to someone you've never met? I have already almost been scammed by someone named Vlaar/Vlaad/still not sure, that was the first red flag, and...I mean, stranger danger), and I can do what I want and be bitter in a controlled environment without any direct impact or vindication.
I was going to write this post about something completely different, but I honestly have said so much that probably would be going overboard. Maybe next time.

MUCH UPLIFTING VERY LAUGHTER WOW

fin.

Verbal art (maybe) for skeptics.

I have things to say today.
LET'S TALK ABOUT THEM.

Instead of saying, 'I know what you're going to say," I will instead say I imagine there are one or two of you that were thinking of saying (or would be thinking of saying if I was physically present with you), "Wow, Lydia, you are blogging so regularly now!" to which I would respond, "Yeah, well, don't get used to it." I have been in college for...um, three years, but I think I meant to say I've been here since a few Fridays ago, as in here, in this apartment, being a senior. We talked about this already. Or maybe we didn't, but it's anything but crucial.
Let's move on.

Today's subject is a rant-gone-tutorial, because this morning I woke up with a ravenous desire to force my knowledge on people (exaggeration). Actually, five minutes ago I suddenly had a ravenous desire to blog, and the quickest thing to hop to the front of my mind-line (metaphor, weird metaphor) was forcing my knowledge on people. The following is based on my wealth of experience and expertise on the subject (lies), my overwhelming boredom, and the fortitude with which various members of my opinions have decided to make themselves known to the world (personification).

this is a post about poetry.

Here is my (probably way too) vulnerable announcement of the day: I write poems. I primarily write them in this tiny journal my roommate Sarah gave to me, but they have been known to make appearances in older journals and Word documents and old church bulletins and school flyers and old sheets of notebook paper, and sometimes I stumble upon them years later and am shocked and appalled, but that, I suppose, is the creative process. Once or twice I find something I wrote in sixth grade and wonder why I never ended up more talented. Actually, that did only happen once, but if you say once or twice, it makes it sound like it happened way more often and you're just being humble.

A lot of people are skeptical about poetry, or just don't enjoy it. Which makes sense; some people don't even like chocolate. We can't all have the same taste; if you want to talk about that, go find someone who feels like being philosophical. I am not there right now. This is not what I am trying to address. I actually don't really want to address anything super critical about the subject, but that always ends up happening regardless of my motive.

More along the lines of what I wanted to talk about is how humans of all walks of life feel enabled and obligated to criticize various poems based on what they do and do not like. This is something I understand, because as I said earlier, everyone has different taste. One is not required to immersively (not a word) read a piece writing one does not find to be pleasing. But one is also not required to stare fervently at visual art that one does not find to be enjoyable. I mean, think about the Mona Lisa. Honestly. It's super cool, and I enjoy it, but I probably would not put the Mona Lisa up in my house. You totally can (a copy; the original is very much not for sale, I'm gathering), but I'm not really that into pictures of people that stare at you from whatever angle you are in the room, and that's the vibe I'm getting from her. Do I admit that Leonardo is talented? Okay, obviously he nailed it, and I admire what he has accomplished. But I don't stare at it all the time and find overwhelming meaning, because

a) I know little to nothing about art history, which limits the story behind it
b) I don't care enough (sad, but true)
c) I am blinded by the culture that has amplified it to its current position of "most famous painting in the world" and therefore cannot look at it without that lens in front of me
d) I do not understand, from a professional standpoint, what it took to make the piece, although I'd guess that it was pretty difficult

Okay? Do you understand? You can not like famous art, and it's still undeniably art. You can not like famous literature, and guess what? Literature. That is still what it is. Oddly enough, this applies to all aspiring and growing forms of art as well; just because it is created by someone who hasn't quite gotten to the big leagues doesn't mean it isn't something that reflects personal expression. You hear me?

EXPRESSION.
PERSONAL.

People can still write poetry if you don't like it. You probably guessed I am the kind of person who appreciates expression through writing, so I am going to fight for it. Obnoxiously.

Of course, you can't just dive right into it and say that you've created something revolutionary. This is why Pinterest bothers me. There are many deep caverns of Pinterest, and the largest of them all are the off-center-over-filtered-dramatic-picture cavern, the minimalist-display-version-of-the-object-of-interest cavern, and the recipes-with-one-too-many-ingredients cavern. I freely indulge in several of these caverns, with low levels of shame, personally striving to avoid stubbing my toes on the stones of dramatically-vibrant-misquotes or falling down the deep, dark hole of zebra print accents. However, during your perusal of the cave system that I have made this website out to be, every now and then you will see etched on a wall pictures and writings that someone has made out of very many of their feelings, and some of them will be well-written or well-drawn or at least very meaningful, and some of them will be ripped straight off of a sixteen-year-old's Tumblr, and they will almost always say little to nothing. That does not mean it is not art...admittedly, sometimes, it makes me doubt that I have talent, because if people are confident enough to flaunt this sort of haphazard word assembly on the internet, why can't I read mine to my parents, who are basically obligated to love me?

The moral of the story is that it takes time. If you want to share what you've made with someone, feel free, and if they hate it, take it in stride, I guess, but don't let that stop you. (Obviously the fear of criticism is something I relate to.) Everyone has to start somewhere; the point is to be actively creating something and letting little pieces of yourself walk around outside of you and say, "Hey! I am a person with thoughts and feelings, and that is cool!" I know it sounds weird, but you don't have to do things simply on the grounds of whether or not other people appreciate them. The fame and acclamation requires growth and patience. Actually, it requires an obscene number of internal connections, usually, so who even cares.

There are a lot of people who only appreciate poetry in limited forms, as well. Most people strongly associate poetry with rhyme, which makes sense, because songs rhyme, and children's books rhyme, and a lot of older, more established poems rhyme. It is easier to figure out or remember a poem if the lines end in the same sounds, because you're so often struck with, "OH! How clever. They must be talented." I mean, when you say things that rhyme that mean nothing, you always notice it, and then make jokes about how you're a poet and didn't know it. Rhyme is just something that strikes us. But the mentality of people who think in this way would say, "If this person worked hard to find rhyming sounds and rhythmic patterns why does your poem get to be a poem too because all it looks like is a bunch of words with weird spaces? Hmm?" To which I would say that if the "free verse" or "non-rhyming" poem (they would say free verse or non-rhyming "poem") has to make up for the shock-and-awe-type rhyme factor with sheer poignancy, then maybe it's harder.

Personally I think both are equally hard, but then again, I'm a step above a sixteen-year-old's Tumblr, maybe.

This is just to say there are a variety of ways to compose poetry, with a variety of schematics. For some, the Dr. Suess pattern works well with rhymes and rhythms that match, but you have all the couplets or the triplets or the alternations, so you can make that your own, and then you have the rule breakers who don't rhyme, but then some of them have a rhythmic pattern that is very evident, and then some have no pattern at all. Some people leave out punctuation symbolically. Some people don't capitalize anything, and not just to be trendy. And then you have the people who write their poems and to make shapes out of the words (physical shapes, not metaphorical ones, but that happens, too). And the people who write acrostic poems. And the people who make the absolute most of the word sounds and turn everything into a giant onomatopoeia (of course that is a word but immersively isn't. BUY A CONSONANT). And then you have haiku, which is...who even knows. You have a variety of options.

Isn't this so fun and exciting? Look what you can do with words! You can SAY things. So fun! You should do it. Really. Go do it right now. Yes, you, you snarky art-hater whom I have judged so strongly since I began to write this two days ago. Go write a poem. Here are the rules/tips/suggestions/proposals I just made up right now to encourage you/seriously it's fun go do these things:

1. Anything goes. DO WHAT YOU WANT. I am so excited for you.
2. Rhyming is fine, but you can't just assume you're doing something cool because it rhymes. You have to actually have something to say. That's honestly the point. If you don't have anything to say (which I honestly doubt), write one tomorrow. I can't deal with any more people spinning straw into profundity. It is just too much.
3. If you choose not to rhyme, it will probably sound awkward at first, but do not let that stop you.
4. Start with paper/pen, so you have to draw lines through the parts you don't like and can observe how you changed it more easily, and then type it so you can orient it spatially and SAVE YOUR ART FOREVER AND EVER YAY.
5. Be bold. Change your mind about what you wanted to say. Cross that crap out. Change your mind back. Write it again. Have no shame.
6. If it turns into prose, accept it. These things happen.
7. If it makes you feel things, DON'T STOP.
8. Okay, objection. If it makes you feel a lot of things and you really need to just cry it out, then totally feel free to stop. Sometimes that's what you needed to do anyway.
9. If you think more/differently afterward, you did it right.
10. DON'T THROW IT AWAY. EVER.

See? I think you can do it. The last thing I want to say is that you don't have to feel like you have to tell everyone you did it. I write these kinds of things...often...and it is exceedingly rare that I let them flutter out into the visual ranges of any human, even humans I care about. I really wanted to be able to share one in an effort to say something like, "If I can, you can!" but it honestly is too scary for me. Also very many of them were born out of very dark periods of life and that is a lot to share with random blog watch sites from France who have found me on the internet. (Hi, France!)

And if it's scary for you, maybe that means you did something significant or said something important (or at least cathartized, which is always good, and once again so far from being a word), whether or not someone finds it and wants to hang it up or Pin it on their "Inspiration" board (or their Tumblr). Or maybe you'll find your gift and become more famous than I ever will be because of my terrified refusal to publicize.

Either way, I'm proud of you.

fin.

It's hasn't even been a week.

HELLO. This is more for me than it is for you. These usually are.

I have nothing to report. Nothing, of course, meaning probably a great number of things that I am going to avoid consciously, relevant topics including (but not limited to):

1. Why I never resolved the angst-fests that were my blog posts from summer school in Michigan. (Too many feelings.)
2. Why I never resolved the angst-fest that was my recovery from my semester in South Africa. (Feelings.)
3. Why I never really blog at all anymore. (Disinterest. More pressing commitments. Feelings.)

Nutshell resolution: actual problems require a lot of vulnerability if you're going to plop them down on the dinner table for everyone to sniff and criticize and stick their forks into.
Does this mean I don't trust you? Probably.
If that offends you, you may abandon the boat. I will be proceeding.

This is something I have been able to find a strain of positiveness (positivity? Is that not a word?) in: I have been a senior in college for (by credits, nine months, but by years) six days! Almost a WEEK. Now, every time some chapel speaker or individual of university-related power mentions the date May 4th, my heart disconnects itself from my circulatory system and threatens to beat so fast that I consider fainting, which would be embarrassing, because I'm usually just sitting around. This is also strange because I just checked the date May 4th, and it is a Monday, and I am fairly positive I will be graduating on a Saturday. They have definitely been saying May 4th, though. Hm.
I suppose May 2nd is most likely the actual Day of Reckoning. Especially since I have just checked the all-powerful calendar, and that is what it says.
How mysterious.

Also, can you tell I'm living with people who utilize vocabulary skills for things other than facades of superiority? The rapidity of their influence is honestly kind of alarming. But they are nice. They are Sarah and Mikaela. And Nicole (round three!) but we already knew she was nice and eloquent and relatable, or at least I did. Hopefully you inferred it.

Considering that great snippet of truth, "You learn something new every day," I decided that maybe it was a good day to force my learnings on you. And in that regard, take it as you like it. At this point, I have nothing to lose until some unidentified date in early May.

SOME CONCEPTUALIZATIONS THAT HAVE RECENTLY ARISEN, OF VARYING SIGNIFICANCE.

Firstly, concerning food, this is the most important thing I have learned thus far: any purchase of spinach is a race against the clock. I buy my own spinach, and there is so much in there that it almost always wilts before you can eat it all...sad. In an effort to be less wasteful, I have been eating it on every sandwich and before every dinner. The bad news is that I'm slowly turning green. The good news is that anemia is nowhere near a concern anymore. Today I threw a handful into my soup. Which brings me to my next statement: eat soup whenever the crud you want. Or sandwiches. Or box macaroni. Never be ashamed of your food. We are all just trying to survive. I once had people comment on how much water I was drinking, and it was then I decided that if my hydration is under speculation, I do not care anymore. And you don't have to always follow my lead on everything, but...you shouldn't either. I mean, care, but...don't. You know? Okay.

Live with people who laugh freely and cause you to do the same. That is what I am doing, and every day is an adventure. Of words, obviously, but also of recollections and dinners and coffee-drinkings and theoretical futures. On the same note, live with people who are okay with you crying in movies. Because feelings are important. Also, About Time is a good movie (which, admittedly, contains bad words and sexy things, so don't attack me after letting your twelve-year-old watch it on my recommendation: I warned you). Live with people who don't judge you for what you eat. This refers back to previous statements.

Keep yourself clean. You don't have to shower every day (#drought), and you don't have to hold your living space to the status of immaculaticity (not at all even close to a word), but you should know how to keep your things together on a regular enough basis that you don't have to launch full-scale invasions against your belongings or your hygiene practices.

Learn to let crap go.
That's really it.
I guess that deserves elaboration.
I mean this in a small scale and in a large scale. There are some aspects of life that are really just #notworthit to fight about, and I guess no one has to do what I do, but it would be fabulous if we could all just adopt my policy on this. Stop valiantly defending your hairline preferences that do not matter (rule of thumb: fluids. Are there tears? Blood? Inordinate amounts of sweat? Is someone dead? That one is important. If so, these things matter).

The things that are worth fighting over/about/concerning are things that can be discussed, for sure, civilly, but if the end is less than ideal then do yourself a favor and bury the dang shovel. Honestly, some people are awful. I like to think that there is good in everyone, but that in no way means that everyone is worth your obsessive devotion. Not everyone is going to come through for you. (IT HAPPENS. It's completely normal for humans to decide to pursue matters of other importance over other things, including friendships. It can be handled according to various methodologies, but...that's not something I want to get into right now.) But guess what? Some things work out. Some people will come through. And they make it worth it, because they know you are worth it.
Just because a story didn't have a happy ending doesn't mean it had to end in chaotic destruction, and just because you have been hurt does not mean you have to turn into one of those crazy old people with scary beards who mutters all the time about the depths of their bitterness.

Eventually, you are going to have to decide what in life actually matters to you, and if I may be so bold (format pun) as to make a suggestion, your peace of mind/quality of life/generic brand of sanity should be one of those things. If you can handle anxiety like a boss, this may be an easier task for you, but if anxiety regularly swallows you whole like boa constrictors are known to swallow their various specimens of prey, you may have to cut a few cords. Drop a class. Quit an insignificant part-time job. Send back the tiny kitten you are hiding from your RA (editor's note: we are not hiding a tiny kitten from our RA. Not to say that I have not ever done that, because I definitely have and am not sorry for it, but that is not currently the case, as Sarah is very allergic to cats of all ages). Kittens take up a lot of time, especially if they are evil and have to be bottle-fed.

Some things that could end up actually mattering: exercise, education, people with whom you are bound by the bonds of love, friendship, and/or blood, your dreams, getting enough sleep, eating a good breakfast, fighting for the underprivileged, kittens that are not evil (also known as puppies), your art, your heart, God, the drought, the planet. And despite how exhaustive this list appears, there could even be a few more.
The good thing is that despite the popular opinion of those on campus, we actually have options. And a fat wad of time.

that is all.
happiest of Tuesdays.
(fin, for consistency.)

a uniquely formatted update.

I don't know how to explain this, so...just go with it. Evidently updating people of my doings and beings and seeings is not my forte, and this is really only going to prove that.
Have a nice day!

--

So, Lydia, how's it going?

Where do you want me to start?

Basically wherever the heck you feel like.
Well...I'm in Michigan, taking some classes on ecology, learning about native birds and mammals and herpetofauna (reptiles and amphibians) and I guess really just a lot of animals and local ecological systems, like lakes and streams and bogs and stuff.

That was an awesome place to start.

I realize that.

How are these classes you speak of?

I mean...they're quite compounded. I have midterms next week and I've only been here for twelve days.

And how are these bogs you speak of?

They have some chill plants and turtles and whatever.

Turtles are sick.

Turtles are sick. 

So resisting the urge to devote the rest of this conversation to turtles, how are you coping with the rapid fire learning environment?

I'm currently eating all of the chocolate caramel balls out of the "trail mix" (who puts chocolate caramel balls in trail mix?) my mom gave me before I left. I'm also having an intermittent phone call with my mom, and I'm avoiding all contact with other members of humanity, because, as of this moment, humanity is the worst.

Ah. Are you hormonal?

I don't appreciate the implication that it's only justifiable for me to feel strong emotion when I'm undergoing some sort of chemical imbalance.

So...

Maybe.

Has it been an overall positive experience?

Yes.

How positive?

Super duper positive.

Are you sassing me?

Are you questioning my honesty?

...

...

How are the people there? Probably all chill and laid back because they're basically all hippies, right?

I mean, everyone in existence is at least a little crazy.

You're a little crazy.

Evidently.

How are the restroom situations?

...fine...? Hot water's all I can ask for...and no guilt about prolonging the drought, because there is no drought here.

What a thought. Who is your roommate?

I have five...Helen, my bunkmate, and Beth, Erin, Lauren, and Emily.

How is your bunk?

Its proximity to the ceiling is genuinely alarming, and my sheets don't fit, and I only 
brought one blanket.

You sound bitter.

It's casual.

How is the food?

The food is good.

how is...the social atmosphere?

Intellectual, I guess? a lot of smart people all having the same discussions with well-informed opinions, so it can get to you. you have to come up with ideas fast.

I see. Why are you having so much trouble capitalizing words?

I dropped a pine needle in my keyboard.

I feel like I should be more surprised than I actually am.

I mean...yeah.

Do you do fun things?

We take classes on how to cry more efficiently.

Ha ha.

sometimes we kayak. Lab is pretty fun for both classes. we drink lots of hot chocolate.

You know you have another Shift key on the keyboard, right?

Oh hey.

Are you lonely?

...what?

Are you lonely?

Where did...huh?

Answer the question. Are you lonely?

Considering the fact that I know no one here very well and am navigating a predominantly temporarily established and intellectually based social dynamic, I would consider moderate loneliness an appropriate response.

You whine so verbosely.

Thank you.

Are you worried that people will judge you for how much you miss your boyfriend?

...

Haven't you guys been dating for a year?

Almost?

When?

Monday...

Ouch.

Mmmmmhmm.

You know you could, like, stop studying abroad.

But what fun would that be.

You clearly sound like you're having oodles of fun.

I am having oodles of fun.

That was so convincing!

Yeah, well, maybe you just caught me on a bad night.

And what are the odds of that?

Maybe pretty high.

Is that so?

Yeah. Maybe my frustration breeds creativity.

What does that have to do with anything?


fin.

Michigan-bound and sleep-deprived.

The phrase “Gate subject to change” is one that can elicit a host of different reactions when it is spoken or heard or disclosed by a receipt printed off of a boarding pass in an airport. Usually frustration and panic are among those more common. Today, my reaction is more accepting and relaxed, because when the gate in question has yet to ascertain an identity in the first place, then it had better freaking be subject to change.

Hi! It’s four in the morning, and I’m in Minnesota. This is unusual, but in Minnesota, it’s six in the morning, so it’s slightly more commonplace; the real oddity is how voraciously I am consuming these raisins. Either way, I’ve had one hour of sleep, so none of this should matter. I am, truthfully, a sight for sore eyes, because sore eyes in an airport deserve a laugh, and that is what I am bound to be drawing out of people. I considered counting the number of colors that adorn me, but my sore eyes have decided against it; chai tea lattes can only wake you up so much. Minnesota is my only stop (albeit a 7 hour one) on my way to Michigan, where I will be for the next five weeks studying animal ecology and aquatic biology by Lake Michigan (aptly named, if you prefer your visitors to have none but the obvious expectations—a lake, in Michigan). If you want to know why, just accept the fact that you may never know, because I refuse to explain it, on no grounds other than the usual: I do what I want.

I have never been to Minnesota, so I am perfectly happy being here. From the sky, it looks like a mint-chocolate cookie with freezer burn: it is very green and brown, with a lot of lakes (it is “the Land of a Thousand Lakes,” so this discovery is not surprising…except it was for me, because I was under the impression that the Land of a Thousand Lakes was Michigan, OOPS) and at the moment, a lot of fog. It also has a fabulous airport, with nice little desks where wanderers can blog out their feelings (as contemporary wanderers are so prone to do) and free unlimited 45 minute sessions of wifi as long as you keep taking their survey. I’m sure there are a lot of business people with more important things to do at this desk, but that is something I have decided not to care about. Besides, the view is nice from this window, if you like planes and a refreshed sense of adventure every time you see one.

So...thus far today I have slept briefly, conversed casually with the lady next to me on the plane, accidentally ordered two breakfast sandwiches instead of one, ate two breakfast sandwiches gratefully, and texted my mom and my boyfriend (the classic combo). I will probably text Nicole when she is awake, but as I stated earlier, it is 4…almost 5 in the morning, in both my brain and California.

I left last night in a frazzle, which always happens whenever I go anywhere, so that’s fine. I planned everything for this trip myself, and am covering all of it myself, and I am going by myself. It's a landmark. Also, I can’t stand that in between stage where you feel pulled in every direction, like you should be preparing to go and maximizing your time with friends and soaking in the moments with your family at your brother’s graduation and panicking over the fact that your school billed you for the wrong study abroad program or the fact that the flight that you thought you had booked never really existed. All of that, all in the gumbo of despair. I handled it poorly—naturally I cried a lot and called myself stupid—but new insight: self-deprecation can easily result from stress, which is reason to doubt its validity. Even newer insight: it gets basically nothing done. What does get things done is writing down your confirmation number before you go to print your boarding passes at the airport. Again, oops.

I don’t have a lot more to say. I’ve cried a lot this weekend, mostly from frustration, but that’s to be expected. I shivered the whole way off the plane because that’s just what I do when I change temperatures. I feel kind of dizzy, but I don’t think my level of caffeine intake has been, like, responsible, so...for the third time, oops. I also probably have to go to the bathroom. I probably will take my socks off, because I need to learn how to adjust the straps on these Chacos before I let them slowly saw my big toes off, and why not now, as I have...six hours, to learn how to do anything in the universe.

Summary: I look like a fool, and I’m in Minnesota. And I’m alive. And for what the cliché is worth, “I’m going on an adventure!”