One flew over the mockingbird's cradle and into the heart of a nation

The most creative task I've done in the past two weeks? Paint and then repaint my nails. Well that was before yesterday of course. I've been lacking the inspiration I need to think outside of the box. It's not like I haven't picked up my sharpie or my 2B pencil, it's just every time I do that, I end up drawing nothing worth my time and I just feel like throwing it away. I'm not interested in drawing still life anymore. Goodbye fruit and flower arrangements....hello everything else! But about the inspiration, yeah. The Philadelphia trip was more or less a concrete way to get me in that artsy mood once again. Yesterday, the Sandra, the Miguel, the Miguel's friend Wendell and I all found ourselves in the hustle and bustle of Philly. I was not expecting to go into the day meeting so many new people. I'd have to say everything about yesterday (besides almost getting hit by a car on multiple occasions and the $36 parking ticket) was premium. Remember when I said a longggg time ago that what I was most excited for in the coming years was human interaction? Well I sure as hell got what I wanted :)

So after introducing myself to Wendell, the four of us cruised up and down South Street bopping from thrift store to outlandish thrift store. While bopping, we found some pretty satisfactory bumper stickers that related mostly to the lack of Jesus' approval in certain situations as well as Girl Power! We saw lots of good stuff, like bikes (I NEED A BANANA SEAT BIKE ASAP) and $3 shoes that were probably clogged with athlete's foot....I'm just sayin'. And on our travels, there were too many (is that possible?) dreadlocked men. I'm not complaining though...just sayin'. Wanna know the best part? Miguel and Wendell were hit on by two lovely ladies working the street. BAHAHA! Just kidding. The 18 year olds weren't working the street, but they were named Barbie and Caramel and they definitely wanted the two boys, fo sho. But for about 15 minutes, the six of us exchanged everything save for our social security numbers! I'm happy that the Barbie/Caramel interaction happened, but I'm more happy that they thought Miguel was 23! hahahahaha, oh man.

We went into stupid places to get tattoos and then the "boy shop." Nothing was purchased from the squishy store besides a ridiculously unnecessary bumper sticker. And no body art was performed though Sandra wanted her lip tattooed. After we were done there, or maybe before, we had another super sonic meeting. Two really cool guys came up to us to tell us that if Outkast and TV on the Radio produced an offspring, that the man standing in front of us would be the result! They describe themselves as folk-hop and are strongly influenced by Biggie and Bob Dylan. wth...that's awesome! It was more awesome when the blondish guy thought Sandra's name was Zelda and he then proceeded to grab her shoulders and yell "I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU ALL MY LIFE!" :) it was the greatest moment in a long time. The singers are called Lee G & Delon. It's like rappy but there are sweet ass beats in the background, and sweet baby jesus, they included Joanna Newsom on three different tracks. Normally rap isn't my cup o' tea, but it isn't purely rap. It's like happy rap that I can understand! So after Joanna's weird voice appeared in the background, they had us sold at that point plus Lee G (who reminds me sooo much of someone, just can't fuckin place it!) is very familiar with Sandra's Buddy Wakefield. We bought the cd and listened to it for a while. They were very awesome people and I TOTES wouldn't mind attending a show of Lee G & Delon's. Plus, they're pretty local and that's greattttt.

More meetings! YES. Well, we went to Art Museum to pay tribute to Rocky's steps and take photographs. Wendell and Miguel showed off in front of the ladies to see who could climb to the top of the huge fountain across the street. Wendell can, and he can also make a fool of himself pretending to blow the statue. :/ There were some skateboarding boys and some foreign ladies in green jeans who thought when we asked them to take a picture of how cute we all are together, that they could take ten minutes to find the right angle and background for us! It was adorable, however. And then after that, we went to these bitchin' sculpture thingers that were massive monopoly pieces and falling dominos! THIS WAS THE BEST INTERACTION!.... okay so there were a gaggle of young children near our picture taking extravaganza. About six miniature people all under the age of 5 I would say. A precious little girl, I'm sure she's just learning to walk, smiled and gave me the cutest googly eyes. Her brother, or friend, a very young one was playing with little army men. When I was squatting down (number 1 mistake) he let the army men cascade down from my shoulder to my arm to my hand to my kneecap to the pavement. So I would take the army men and do the same to him, just to be friendly, ya know? That was all fine. Until he started staring at my shirt, and what happened to be filling my shirt at the moment. He began stuffing the little plastic men with automatic guns down his shirt, still while keeping one hell of a gaze at my goods. Guess what he tried to get me to do next? Ohhh, that's right, stuff the army men down my shirt too. :/ So his mom told him he was "fresh" and I reassured her that it should be comforting that he acts this way, in about 15 years, the kid'll be set! She didn't really care for that...but it's not like I really give a shit...I mean her kid was trying to feel me up! And he couldn't have been more than 2 and a half. But the precious young thang who is just learning how to take steps makes an appearance again in this whole interaction deal. She had a fork wrapped in plastic, probably from some fast food joint and she was chewing on the plastic. And as she did this she started waddling on over to me. So I held out my hand in an attempt to free her from her plastic restraint. Instead, the penguin found it's way over to my outstretched hand and licked my palm. So basically in a matter of about 10 minutes, a 2 year old tried to touch my boobs and a 10 month old licked me. And as they were all departing, the frisky boy shook my hand, but didn't really care to look me in the eyes....I think you probably know where he was looking.

That pretty much was the day. All of the interactions that I had with new people, even if I didn't get their names. I met peers, artists, babies, the homeless, the wealthy, the bronze (shout out to you Rockyyy). It was great and not even thirty minutes from home. I'm excited to meet more people! This weekend coming up should be premium for multiple reasons, but mostly because it's the Punk Rock Flea Market. That means Philadelphia again, and cool things to buy and friends and love and sunglasses and earrings and love and friends and fun and fleas. Can't wait. I'll update about the goodness probs on Monday. And there better be something good worth blaaging about. If you get ma drift :)

ooh, I never told y'all what I did with my inspiration. Well when the four of us were boppin and hoppin through weird stores, I picked up some awesome fliers/postcard/advertisements and such. And they're above my door frame. There is a cow that I cut out from the tattoo place, a kid that looks like his face was made into a rug, flowery things and stupid things all above my door. No biggie, but it's something new in my room. And that's what counts.

Celibacy is like celery. They sound alike and they're both uneventful.

Lately I've been sitting outside on my back porch. I used to try to avoid the sun at all costs. Or just the tan part. I went through a phase for a few years where I didn't feel it was necessary to heighten the pigment in my skin. I used to run around all the time, footloose with my tank tops and shorts on. But that was when I was a young one. Practically a baby. Maybe 11. But then I thought about it, and I realized that girls without suntans can be pretty, too. I still think that, but I kinda miss the rich color the sun brings out in my shoulders, and the tops of my feet. As I've been lounging in the privacy of my own backyard, odd tan lines have taken their form. One day I'll wear a ribbed top that is missing the sleeves and the sun beats down around the hemmed edges. The next day, I'll wear a shirt with straps as thin as angel hair. It's fun to look at though. I have my own scale of colors from my collarbone to the edge of my shoulder. The best part about my newfound sun fun? My freckles have reappeared. I forgot how much I missed the dots that decorate my cheeks after a lengthy day in the sun. When I was a baby (eleven years old) my cheeks and nose, and a bit of my forehead would be taken over by tiny, light brown freckles all summer long, only to disappear once the leaves would begin to fall. I love the freckles that are on my face again. Just as much as I like the freckles that are beginning to line my arms and the tops of my shoulders. Once, I found the Big Dipper on my back....

" 'Take your clothes off and join in, Smith!' But on top of all that, the feelings about Princess, I'd also gone through an entire year of celibacy based on my feeling that lust was the direct cause of birth which was the direct cause of suffering and death and I had really no lie come to a point where I regarded lust as offensive and even cruel." - Ray Smith, Dharma Bums.
HAHAHA! That is incredible. When I was earning my freckles on the deck outside, I read this quote and made sure to remember it. What a great connection that Ray Smith has made here! I don't necessarily think it's right, but how great. A man quitting sex cold turkey just cause he's under the impression that feelings for an attractive woman will eventually lead to suffering and death. It's so depressing. Some would argue without sex and lust, one's life is meaningless. No meaning in your life causes a lot of alone time. Which causes unavoidable thinking. Which causes insanity. Which causes suffering and death. Hmmm... celibacy. Nah. But good job, Ray Smith/Jack Kerouac.

A mausoleum full of half empty hairspray bottles and frayed glitter gloves.

This isn't really my idea of a good time. First Farrah and then Michael? I usually try not to pay too much attention to celebrity gossip. Sometimes it's fun to see pictures of those silly celebs running around acting all high and mighty. But most of the time, I'd rather be captivated by the way these men and women portray characters on the big screen. Or hear their poetry set to the strum of a guitar, the kick of a drum. But this is different. The only other time I can remember in recent years, that I felt this strongly about a celebrity death, was January 22, 2008. Heath Ledger. I remember it was senior year and there were midterms to be taken. Essays to write, math problems to solve. But instead of focusing on those words and numbers, I was focused on the motivation behind this man's death. Pretty much caught in the scandal of the media. This time, a man and a woman have died...all in the same day. One was "supposed" to happen and the other one was as sudden as a blizzard in the middle of July. And the entire time I'm watching coverage on both Farrah Fawcett's tragic battle with cancer and Michael Jackson's weakened heart, I can't help but to think of everyone who has been touched by both of these legacies. (No pedophile jokes, yo!) These two, Farrah and Michael, are completely opposite in character; one a beautiful and iconic woman with hair for miles and a smile to match it, the other a King in his own sense with dance moves that shake the world. But they're both symbols of the world. It's tragic. It's not cool when someone is so consumed by their cancer that they practically melt away. Just like it's not cool when someone is overtaken by an unexpected massive heart attack. She was 62. He was 50. What the hell? Fucked up, man.

The important thing to remember while all of this media attention continues, is that the careers of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett cannot be the only defining factor. She was a mother, a daughter, a friend, a sister. He was a father, a son, a friend, a brother. Two normal people in the loosest of terms. I'm a daughter, a sister, a friend, maybe one day a mother. Not so different.... Putting aside any unintentional rumors about molesting children, I'm pretty sure 50 years old is too young to die. There are a lot of people already who have fired out "good riddance, he was trash anyway" or "he may have had some good hits, but he still touched little boys." Wow...that's cool, guys. So did the little boy tell you this himself, or are you going off of what Wikipedia might have to say about the ruling of MJ's court trials? All I'm saying is what defines a person is not the media. Unfortunately, the truth may never be revealed now, but it's not like the public eye really had any business sticking their greedy noses into his business anyway. Before you start bashing Michael's affection for children, try taking a gander into the church around the corner...ya know, the one that's so deeply cherished for it's generosity? ... ya got any stories about the Priest? Or is there a justification cause he's in the Lord's house? I'm not a church goer myself, nor have I been diddled (it's a word) by Priests, so what truly gives me any say in the matter of faulty clergy? Point is, I don't know bout yo' Father Figures, just like you don't know bout the King of Pop. So instead of pointing a finger at rumored pedophilia in the pew or some squishy activity at Neverland Ranch, let's try to consider other qualities. Like the fact that Michael Jackson is probably the best dancer to ever grace a stage. Damn.

I think listening to the sounds of the Jackson 5 while Charlie's Angels plays on the tv in the background is the correct way to handle this. What do you think?

Eyes are like champagne. They sparkle, bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain.

Right now, my hands are veiny. I think it's cause I was doing a lot of strenuous work. Like opening and closing my dresser drawers multiple times. Yeah, that's probably what created the veiny appearance of my hands. Sometimes veins are gross when they bulge out like underground roadways. Hondas and Mini Coopers poking through your skin, riding down I-95. Yuck. But right now, my hands aren't sick nasty. The street under my skin is merely just a one way. Narrow and discrete. I wonder why I'm talking about my veins. Have I seriously run out of topics to blaguh about? Pssh, hail NO.

Wanna know the reason I've been opening and closing my drawers? Ok. It's cause I'm interested in the clothes that I own. Especially a new dress that was purchased today. Twelve dollahs. Cha-ching. I'm playing dress up. And then dress down. And then dress up again. My face is being painted with purples and greens that accent my hazelnut eyeballs. The sort of hourglass that is my hips and my torso is being wrapped in soft cloth. I'm heating my hair with a ceramic iron until it's forced to stand straight just so I can pin half of it up and pretend I'm some kind of greek goddess. All the while, Josh Ritter is singing me tunes about his girl in the war (see: alcoholic title) and a thin blue flame. I'm glad I listen to his music, but especially his words. He is a brilliant poet. Having a secret love affair with every meaning of every word. Mister Ritter is having a major impact on me...so much that I had a crazy weird dream involving him turning into Rob Schneider (of SNL, Big Daddy and all those other Sandler flicks). But besides the silly metamorphosis, Joshua is superb as ever.

I need to take away some of the yellow on my walls. By that, I mean I need to find adequate wall hangings. I might just have to start drawing more. And that's fine. But I want things that I don't do. All I've been drawing are old women that turn into popcorn boxes. And I don't know how much I want to see a saggy woman on my wall everyday. So I think what needs to happen is I need to go dumpster diving (or you could just give me anything you don't want anymore. Fabric, posters, orange peels....anything). Also, if you have old time books that you aren't interested in anymore, send them my way, por favor. Tanks a bunch.

I'm going to build an ark. I figure with all this rain, I'm sure this is like Noah part II, right? Except this time, I want the ark to be a petting zoo. And the main attraction will be alpacas. Gots ta make a livin' :)

The fringes on the rug broke your vacuum cleaner, sir.

I'm not feeling extremely wordy as of right now. But I can't think of anything else to do that won't put me to sleep. I could continue on reading Dharma Bums to enlighten me spiritually and Kerouac-y. But once I do, my eyes will get heavy and I will have no other choice but to doze off into dreamland. If I wanted, I could sketch my face. I attempted that two nights ago because I was feeling particularly self confident as well as radiant in my appearance. But soon after my 3B (I work dark) pencil was set down on the paper, and my soft curls bounced around the egg shape that is my head, I grew drowsy again. What is making me so goddamn tired? It's not like I'm working my ass off at jobs. I'm not raising a bunch of kids, trying to make them successful products of the world. I'm pretty much sitting on my ass waiting for opportunities to arise. And some have. Like today. I ripped down (unscrewed) my fan blades and painted them. Seven years ago when I moved to this house, my mom painted my fan a precious shade of puke orange. It was too much and didn't really go with my new room at all. So today I fixed it. If you had to compare the end product of what I did to an organ in your body, it would most closely resemble the heart. The colors of the fan are blood red and aorta blue. Just kidding....cardinal red and turquoise. Same thing though, right?

It's 10:29. What am I going to do to stay awake? Can you please start a conversation with me. Tell me how 85% of your day is spent thinking about me, so I can tell you that 86% of my day is spent thinking of you. Hop through these hours with me like a cricket in flight. But don't hop too high, cause I want to savor this time.

What's the "N" stand for? North.

Today I watched Into the Wild for the third time this summer. From June to August last year, I watched the movie 12 times. I honestly can say that I could watch that film over and over again and never reach the point where I want to turn it off. In life, there are some things that can re-route your existence. Some may be rewarding like witnessing that lottery drawing between Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune that includes those same numbers that you've etched so delicately on a piece of paper for the last 15 years. Or seeing that pink plus sign on a plastic stick that screams out "Welcome Aboard the Mommy Train." It's possible the re-route may just be a simple change in scenery that paints the new landscape of retired life. Well Christopher McCandless and his story will never be considered simple, but they definitely have figured out a way to make me more aware of myself. I plan on watching Sean Penn's brilliance at least 17 more times this summer, mostly because my tv has decided on dishin' out Showtime and it's been playing frequently, but also because there is nothing more refreshing than opening a can of wanderlust. Who can deny that feeling to live, to escape? There may be two of three handfuls of people out there who think the sole purpose of living is to surround yourself by humanity. That can be part of it, but don't reject the part where you grow as a result of seclusion. Part of finding out who you are is based on the interactions...completely. I am a strong believer in that. (I wrote about everyone having a story. it's true.) But there's another part of yourself, the part that relies on being alone with your thoughts to gain a deeper understanding of strength. But who am I to tell you what not to reject...live your life the way you see fit, even if that means being surrounded by the chattering non-stop of the world. But I'm pretty sure you'll always have that desire to be footloose, just like good ol' Supertramp :) ...expect another entry about this before the summer ends. it's inevitable!

A year and 4 days ago I graduated from high school. About an hour ago, close to five hundred fresh faces were introduced to their diplomas as well. Now all that's left is a graduation celebration tonight, about 52 parties and two summer months before a gaggle of new kids on the block can finally rid themselves of their 13 year old public school titles. Once these kids move on to their higher education, the football player that everyone in school knew only by a single name, just like Aristotle, Jesus and Beck, might have to settle on being called "that kid in my Psych class" from now on. The girl who was notorious for having a bird nest of frizz perched on her head can forget the way she used to style her hair and buy a flat iron. No more name calling or misunderstood personality traits. The dork can finally date the suave intellectual. A year ago, I hated the fact that I was leaving behind the comfort of public schools and I'm sure there are a lot of others in that same boat as I sit here and type. But they don't know how good it is. How good it will be.

Would you see then, what I see now?

I woke up from a nap an hour and 32 minutes ago. My body still hasn't adjusted to being awake from the 45 minute slumber that consumed me. Sure, my right arm has stopped tingling from being shoved under my body without room to breathe, but that's only because I haven't stopped moving it since I woke up. Either way, I have a feeling I'm becoming dependent on the semi unconscious world of sleep. Last night, it took an hour and a half after I layed down to actually fall into sleep, until there was some yelling in the house that shook me awake for another 2 hours. I was three inches from pretending I had back pain so I could take some p.m. medicine and call it a day. Or night, rather. There were many things that created an unpleasant atmosphere for me last night, but the only thing that matters is my brain activity. Putting aside the humidity of my room and the mattress pad that won't stop spilling me off the edge of the bed along with it's down feathered innards, I was completely racked with ideas. I like it, but only during the day, please. Not when I'm trying to rest. That's why I've been frequenting the napping scenario so much this summer. My brain tells me that it's better to consider the happenings of that day rather than who to meet in my dreams.

As the sun was setting last night, the sky turned magical. All day, we were stuck with the drab gray sky. Maybe a slight hint of dark gray came about every once and a while when a storm threatened to explode. It wasn't until about eight thirty that the gray went away and the sky worked up the most intense orange I'd ever seen. A bright orange that turned the green grass into an illuminated brown. It turned the red car across the street into a fire engine. The newly paved road separating my townhouse from the ones across the way glittered with the orange lava burst. Even the kids running around in sandals throwing hula hoops into the air glowed as the surreal light made it's way onto their tiny cheeks. But as time continued and the sun was making room for the moon, there had still been some dark blue and gray storm clouds that forgot to vanish. So as this synthetic orange color blew up the sky and mixed with the blue clouds, I couldn't help but to compare what I was seeing to a bruise. I was looking up at the world's largest kneecap with the biggest Oowwiiee known to man! Maybe the kneecap hit into one of those damn corners of the table, and what I was seeing in the sky was the result. A tie dyed contusion of the healing process every great bruise endures. And as I looked up from my bedroom window, I got to see first hand. It was pure and beautiful. For the 12 minutes it stayed, anyway.

I miss my roomie. It's been 26 days since I've seen her. I wish we were rooming together next year. She'll pretty much no matter what happens, always be my roomie. Even in 30 years when we meet up in her trailer park neighborhood, with Gretta and Babs for our monthly book discussion, I'll still refer to her as Roomie. And when her children get knocked up and have babies, I'll tell them how great 2008 and 2009 were when we paraded down the hallway in our bras and underwear (Oh wait..that didn't happen!) or smacked the ceiling with all our power to let our upstairs neighbors know that it's not proper etiquette to have bowling tournaments in their dorm room at 3 in the morning. (that definitely happened!). She's probably the most well rounded person I've ever known, mostly because she doesn't exercise (i keed i keed. you are jacked!) but she also knows who she is and I love that. SAMantha ya friggin dork! You smell like a turnip bulb <3