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Rundownnnn

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So, I don’t have much time to write (strangely). It seems that I am always made up of time, that I have 24 hours in a day and nothing to fill them with but incessant babbling on here, etc. Not so.

Then one day I sat down to a computer, logged into Facebook and impulsively deactivated my account. It was AWESOME. I feel like a whole new…blogger. Addict. Whatever.
The best part about it is, I did it right at a time when I was destined a journey to Homework Mountain. Papers, research, photos, design, photos, papers, research — you name it and it’s in my 08-09 planner (okay, so only until the end of the semester.) I can’t believe I haven’t gone into panic mode yet, really. 
I spent the day yesterday researching  for an upcoming project I am doing in conjunction with a non-contemporary photographer. I don’t even know how this is possible, but apparently I am collaborating with a dead artist. When I ran across Robert Frank, I had to wish him dead for a moment because he is so. Freaking. Sweet. And I was hoping to collaborate with him. Fortunately he is alive and well. I am leaning toward Richard Avedon instead, who is very much cool in his own respect (and also dead).
I am off for coffee for now. Those three dollars for a Chai latte are always burning a hole in my pocket…
Love — and stress.
Jenny

Poll-ey Cow! It’s Election Day!!

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Let’s end this epic race on a good note.
PS: For a nice, convenient way to keep track of the results and completely immerse yourself in the election, check out NY Times’ Election Results Dashboard
Pretty neat!

Wake Up

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Undertaking the wake up
Day’s hardest fraction
Inundated in sleep, sheet-coated
Doze back, fade, come around 
One part present, one absent, all mussed
Shower steaming, fuck it
       Take the chance
Remember you’re here
Here, awake…awake?
Nicer, so much nicer in bed
Too late, day’s already began…
Rack of clothes dangling
Blurred colors, pick one
      Any one, all of them
None of them, pick one
Malfunctioning garments, no shoes
Jeans, mucky jeans
Five to —
Too late, I’m screwed.
Goodnight.

Frankly.

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I am on the verge.

One second I am wonderful, the next I am slipping. I have been having a really great semester and staying positive for the most part, but times like now, I want to sleep and dream, and not think of anything but dreams and sleep. I just need to escape.
I miss my family. I miss my best friends. I miss my house. I miss having someone.
I have been drowned in stressful routine. Of cleaning, of working, of cleaning more. Of holding back, and worrying, and beating myself up over little things. Of schoolwork, and of trying to please everyone. Of wondering what people think of the efforts I am putting forth. Of putting in so much, and in return, receiving what seems to be so little.
When you slip, you don’t care what you have. You care what you’ve lost, and what’s missing from your life. Never mind that I am surrounded by fortune and benevolence — that’s all wonderful, but right now I feel incomplete. 
I just need…a hug.
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Sixteen ounces of coffee, four gallons of gas
Twenty-dollar bill among reassuring words
An unmade bed, an incomplete paper
Glass of water with melted ice cubes.
Yesterday’s dress and last year’s scarf
Fresh ringlets freshly twirled
“Are you going out tonight?” asks the woman
At the convenience store, and she has more fun.
Try harder
Pining
Stay longer
Grueling
Be better
You can do it.
They’ll be dancing and drunk, shouting
High heels and boots, all the looks
Laughing at somebody in some way, engaging
Compelling the night away.
“If only.”

Styla-notsomucha.

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WEDNESDAYS ALWAYS BRING A PLETHORA OF EXCITEMENT. My day starts at noon when I wake up, and ends whenever I zone out, generally during the last 10 minutes of Creative Writing. Then I come home, sit down to some good eatins’ and “family time” with my lovely roommates (tonight’s feature entree was Manwiches)(Kacy, I can already see you squirming in your seat) then at approximately 7 p.m., we turn the television toward the kitchen table engage in the eye candy that is America’s Next Top Model.

Recently, my Wednesday evenings have been extended by last week’s premiere of CW’s Stylista. I love style, and though I am nowhere near qualified on any basis of fashion, I find this show absolutely ridiculous for about 85 reasons (I will only state three):
a. The cast members cause more drama in 8 seconds than I’ve had in the past 8 years of my life.
II. Anne Slowey, you are not Meryl Streep à la The Devil Wears Prada. Please stop, you’re embarassing yourself.
3. Within the first two episodes, contestants have prepared Slowey’s breakfast (“I don’t do almonds unless they’re soaked overnight,” “I only take iced lattes with a small straw”), gone to the emergency room, put up with Kate’s boobs and tears, the incessant bitchiness of Megan, and created pages for Elle — straight out of a high school yearbook. Nice work, team.
 Ridiculous.

Sappy (You’ve Been Warned)

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SOMETIMES I’LL SAY, ‘I MISS YOU.’ Sometimes I’ll ponder, wondering where you are and how long it’d take me to get to you, or what it would take to get to you, or if I could get to you. Sometimes, foolishly, the word ‘love’ crosses my mind and I digress to think of more sensical things. And sometimes, I know the deeper feeling is that being solitary is the only basis of my thoughts for you. I’m just fine. Really, I am.

But today I felt something more sincere. I was walking on sidewalk freshly scattered with leaves, shuffling my feet between the layers of fresh gold and crunchy brown, enjoying what was a beautiful fall afternoon. I’d step, extend my leg back and swiftly kick up, sending the ground’s quiet blanket in every direction. 
The thought came without prompt, somewhere in mid-boot. Grandpa. 
I counted the time it’d been since I’d seen him, how quickly December is approaching to add another year to the count. His face, his glasses, his smile. The way he parted his hair, or stepped out of his Blazer in front of the house, stopping by with vegetables from the garden and hand-me-down magazines, hello’s and simple words, a pleasant laugh. Four years. Five years. Too long.
Sometimes I’ll say I miss someone. Sometimes I’ll ponder, and wonder where they are, and how long it would take me to get to them, or what it would take to get to them, or if I could get to them. And then the word ‘love’ crosses my mind, and I don’t feel so foolish…
Because I know where you are, and how long it will take to get to you, and what it takes to get to you. And I really, really love you.
And I feel slightly more aware of demarcation between true and false.