These girls, they drift in and out bleating some language I don’t understand. Eight year old me understood. Twelve year old me understood. Years later, I still don’t understand.
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It feels like the weekend although the weekend hasn’t started. It’s because I feel slow, slow and relaxed and languid, like maybe a sloth or maybe a koala. I see flashes of Tampa, Florida in my mind as I consider my slothiness. I see flashes of blue and sea as we’re on the highway. I’m trying to get the sun positioned right behind my hair. No, not like this. Like that. From that angle. I see a tiger sweatshirt and wild cats that’ll never be free. In the pictures my hair’s even more untamed than the felines prowling the space.
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I have an art crush. This is my art crush, @elesq. I wormhole through art blogs on tumblr every so often and stumble upon styles/artists I really like and this is one. Simple poignant stuff. I’d emulate it, but I feel like my style is kind of heavy–I go and try to fill in every space possible. When I attempt minimalism I’m inclined to fill in the spaces. But you’re supposed to let the space speak for itself. Like silences used for effect in plays. In conversations. In speeches where you think people have dropped off from listening so when you’re quiet they’re jarred back to attention: why aren’t you droning on anymore?
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A few days ago I wrote for the student newspaper about Sara Bareilles performing in the dorm lounge on campus. And two weeks ago I saw Hillary Clinton and Tim Kaine speak. Apparently the Clintons and Obamas will be here next week. Exciting, exciting. Since coming to college I’ve seen and photographed so many famous people–famous singers, authors, journalists, editors, celebrities, political figures. It’s really cool. For a moment while I listened to Sara Bareilles belt out Love Song I felt goosebumps on my arms. I paused from recording and really looked at her, focused on the piano, let myself bathe in the moment. Remembered the glee of being ten or eleven and going to my best friend’s house, all the while listening to Sara Bareilles. It might have been September. We crimped out hair and Photo-boothed it after. I’d gone from listening to Sara Bareilles in my room with the heart-painted-on bookcase to watching her perform in our dorm lounge.
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This is the first thing I wrote. But then I cut it up into pieces and scattered it across the screen.