Damn Straight, Magna Cum Laude
I’m going through some Major Life Transitions (MLT’s!) right now, which may result in sparser posting. But who knows! It may also result in more frequent posting. If all goes as planned, I’ll be filled with all the creative energy of change, and I look forward to sharing the art and writing that emerges from that.
This week is my last week of college.
…which is scary.
And that’s the thesis of this post. There are so many things I need to sit down and work through (emotionally, financially) before graduating. All I know is that I’m moving to Boulder, Colorado in one month, and I need all the connections, help, and employment that I can get.
My final project for my figure drawing class is a seven-foot-tall portrait of myself. From head to toe. It has been incredibly time consuming, but also very meditative: I’ve spent hours with a bottle of white wine, just shading. I feel like it should be challenging me to do some self-reflection, but that hasn’t happened yet.
Published February 11, 2010
Books/Literature , College
Tags: Architecture, College, Corners, Cozy, Design, Reading, Reading Nooks, Reading Spots, Study Rooms, Study Spaces
Discovered this nook in the art building at my college the other day. It’s freezing cold in the winter, but has some of the best natural lighting, gothic architecture coziness (does that even exist?), and great views out over the campus.
Published November 23, 2009
Tags: Charlottesville, College, Writing
We are beings-in-process. At every stage of self-discovery, we look back reinterpret the past, gleaning for clues that we would eventually come to here.
Back in Charlottesville, Virginia, I lean against the columns of the historic lawn at UVa to smoke a cigarette and shelter myself from the rain. I’m the only one standing still in the current of umbrella’d students scurrying to classes, restaurants, coffee shops.
Funny how a place is more emotion than geography.
I heard the other day that a close friend from high school is a creative writing major. Good, I thought, that he should end up where he should be. I wonder if he couldn’t shake the same impulse that I am always fighting—the sneaking knowledge that writing is the best way to sort through things internal and external. Things past and present. And did he sort through me the way I sorted through him?
I have a memory of pestering him to include me in an essay. I think I wanted confirmation that I wasn’t the only one encountering real life through writing. He said he did, but never showed me the result.
In Alderman library, I wonder how I would’ve been at a school of 30,000 students instead of 1600. I count down the days till I return to school, and from then until graduation. These sorts of anxieties are best calmed by a pen—this break has already produced ten poems.
I will write my way from Charlottesville back to Gambier, and from the past back into the present (and onward)