smile

Alors, On y vas.

The semester is upon me.
I am already photoshopping the photos that will populate my portfolio.
The thesis dealing with balancing the formality of classical Italianate
theatrical architecture with in the confines of an intimate modern venue
is underway. Approved seating schedule, approved raised platform, And
approved use of a tropme l'oeil/ 3-d hybrid technique that I am quite
excited to try.

Have finally let go of the Baron situation.
It was an experiment, I figure, for both of us and it failed.
May I have more failures as fantastic as that adventure led me on.
Time to continue, many more pastures offering ever an ever greeen supply
of grass, right?

My role as secret keeper to friends and family has grown considerably.
More on that in about a month, maybe.

Crush

unfortunate repetition

It's happened again.
Things went well for a while and then he vanishes mysteriously.
He would resurface from time to time via text message appologizing.

It leaves a void. Being left without a reason.
No benefit of not knowing what you did to prevent it from happening again.
Just a one line notification on a social networking site that he is now
in a relationship, something I was told was unwanted. Which I suppose makes
it even more surreal and still more odd that I feel as I do.

He's a good guy, I know.
He just found something more, I suppose.



Work is starting as far as my thesis is concerned.
Design meetings all week.
Words followed by ideas that turn into concepts.
Then come sketches and concept drawings. More meetings.
Changes and revisions. Keeping busy.

Trying to stay out of the bars, trying not to drink too much.
Trying to get out of the habit of smoking while drinking.
May as well reduce the drinking.
Trying not to make drinking a means of feeling better.

Not entirely too down though.
I've a new appreciation for mornings.
And cooking.

Featured Artist: Gossip

Quatre Murs

Things have been pointing in a homewardly direction as of late.
So much so that I'm writing about it again.

Strangers are asking me to explain home. As in a physical space.
An occupied space, occupied by me. When people you have never
known before are calling you out on your transience it goes beyond
coincidence. When you need something the universe conspires to
help you get it. I need a home.

I am quick to say that I am my own home. That at the end of it
all I can relax back into myself. As we all know though this is not
so true. Too much traffic inside ourselves, too many thoughts, worries
emotions. I've realized that this is an impossibility.
I can not create a home within me, as much as I would like to.

Home has to be a base from which all other points are journeyed to.
Point A, if you will. Its were we compile all of our collected physical
memories. Those of us who do that sort of thing anyway. They are
extensions of ourselves in the way we choose them, organize and
utilize them. What colour paint, what sort of lighting fixture, what
sort of bulb in the lighting fixture to better enhance the paint.
It all comes from inside really. From that part I was typing about
earlier that we cannot live in. We bring it out of ourselves so that
we can indeed live in it.

I had a notion that home meant being stuck down rather than
anchored. That by constantly moving forward the collection of
experiences would amount to more that of something I could get
by being a tourist. The realization that I am living in a way that
prevents me from getting what I want is stunning. That is to say
I want a boyfriend for more than six minutes for fear that I will have
to leave soon for the next brighter location. A house I don't
have to move out of. A pet. An immersion in a collective of
individuals, which I suppose is a community.

To begin, I need to find a location that suits me.
Where is that though?

I once turned into a polar bear made of light

Smile

(jak&jil)

Home (Pronunciation: \ˈhōm\ Function: noun)

Etymology:

Middle English hom, from Old English hām village, home; akin to Old High German heimšeima family, servants, Sanskrit kṣema habitable, kṣeti he dwells, Greek ktizein to inhabit home, Lithuanian

Date:

before 12th century

1 a: one's place of residence : domicile b: house2: the social unit formed by a family living together3 a: a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment ; also : the focus of one's domestic attention <home is where the heart is> b: habitat4 a: a place of origin home to spawn> ; also : one's own country home and abroad> b: headquarters 2 <home of the dance company>5: an establishment providing residence and care for people with special needs <homes for the elderly>6: the objective in various games ; especially : home plate

— at home

1: relaxed and comfortable : at ease at home on the stage>2: in harmony with the surroundings3:: knowledgeable on familiar ground at home in their subject fields>


I grew up carrying luggage.

In near constant motion I would move from family member to family member.
Partly out of convenience to my parents who were all but twenty when I was born, and partly out of a odd
juvenile form of wanderlust. I asked to move. I asked relatives if I could come for extended visits.
I traveled good distances in the summers. From age three until around twelve I was nomadic.

Or maybe I was a tourist. Homeless.

Being considerably older than three years old now, I am increasingly aware of the effects of my childhood affinity for travel has had on my later years. I grew up away from my parents. Thousands of miles away sometimes. I crossed a sea and began to speak differently from them, developed a palate unknown to my siblings, I grew to be comforted by foreign objects and cultural projections. A little american-born european.

When I came home the adjustment was always a struggle. Things would not work the same way, from door knobs to accepted behaviours. Words changed. People regarded me differently. Being a mixed race child in the eighties who had a continental accent and artistic tendencies was not so common. More so in the small North Carolina towns my mum began to live in with my step-father, who made it clear he disaproved of both me and my upbringing. Thus I never felt at home.

Home later came to be New Mexico. And now New Orleans, a place that while maintaining a absolute sense of United States bravado also recalls the cool grandeur of childhood landscapes.

I am still as displaced though. Having chosen the work that I do makes me even more of a vagabond, traveling from job to job with only school as an anchor. Will I ever buy a house? Will I ever plant a garden? Will I ever take root?
Eventually I imagine I have to. Right? Eventually you find a spot that is a fit and you find that you are quite comfortable. You have a job that is not in danger of becoming obsolete or does not end in six weeks, a house that you like quite well and begin melding yourself with it. Buying furrniture that is not partly disposeable or easily
resold.

Eventually I might get there, but being a little homeless has not worked out terribly for me. I suppose it makes me even more a world citizen not to be tied to one local, ventureing out on vacations and always returning to the same spot. Which sounds fantastic, I would very muck love to settle down with someone and plan exotic getaways. But for some one who has lived their life as an exotic getaway that can be a little claustrophobic.

Maybe I need to live aboard an areoplane, or a ship. But how does one garden on a plane?

(post suggested by Cassien G.)

Featured Artist: Madonna

( ... )

I am having trouble writing.

Crush

I need to take pictures...

Encore chez mere en Caroline du NOrd. Plein de solitude, plein d'ennui. C'est belle
ici, oui,une petite ville entourée par des forêts. Chaque nuit je m'assieds sur le balcon et observe notre petite rue suburbaine. Les couleurs sont incroyables. La lueur d'or d'une lampe dans une fenêtre, le bleu d'une lampe de sécurité, le fort vert de l'herb illumine par des réverbères . La lueur orange de la pollution lumiere contre la silhouette des arbres.

Je veux commencer à peindre encore. C'est dur pk j'ai la mémoire dans mes yeux, dans mes mains. Mais dans mon esprit il y'a un mur. Un mur du verre. Je peux voir à travers mais chui incapable de fonctionner.

Je dois trouver un marteau.


Jusqu'ici j'ai perdu ma chance de photographier une forêt remplie par brouillard par laquelle a couru par hier et le jardinier chaud de mes parents qui fauchant la pelouse, que je suis distrait près pendant que je faire la dactylographie. Tristement j'ai laissé ma petite câble pour le digicam à la maison en NOLA, ainsi je devrai faire un autre livre de photo sur le retour. Si tout va bien l'herbe se développe vite. Peut-être je vais prennent un couple que cent gallons de miracle grow chez Home Depot. Ce qui est vraiment une excuse pour passer en revue les papas chauds là.