Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Monday, June 4, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
I'm thankful for all of the people who have gotten me to this point in my life. I don't have words to say how much their support means to me. I hope that I can continue to live up to their expectations. I aspire to be as wonderful as they have been, and I look forward to someday having the opportunity to tell them all how grateful I am for everything they have done.
I've been cleaning and trying to minimize the amount of stuff that I've accumulated- and it hasn't been easy. I'm sentimental, and I tend to collect things. I have a shelf full of half used spiral notebooks beside my bed, and I add to the collection regularly. It's a stack that has been growing since the sixth grade, when I first began to write. Flipping through one of these notebooks last weekend, I belatedly discovered a note intended for my eighteen year old self, written on the day before my fourteenth birthday.
“If it wouldn’t cause the world to explode, it would be cool to meet you. But, since there is currently no way for me to travel forward in time, I’m doing the next best thing: I’m making my own time capsule.
Why? Because I want you to be me. (That probably won’t make sense to me/you/us in four years, so let me explain.) I don’t want to lose what I believe in. I don’t want things that are meaningful now to lose their meaning. But, if it does happen that I change, I want to at least be able to remember why things were important. And maybe, that way, they will gain value again.
… Live life passionately. Have passion in everything you do: drawing, writing, and art in general. I want art to be a big part of your life. And love. Love people who love you.
These are the last words I’m writing as a 13 year old. Goodnight!”
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
I love ugly sweaters. Really, I do. Knit atrocities pull on my heartstrings with a pathos usually reserved for commercials about shelter pets and third world orphans. I can’t help it. Whenever I see something particularly hideous, I feel compelled to pick it up and bring it home. I prowl thrift stores, lurk in consignment shops, and pillage attics mercilessly.
My closet is immaculately organized. I have a section for dresses, for my Chinese cheongsams, and for shoes. Finally I have sweaters- subcategories upon subcategories of sweaters. Dress sweaters, casual sweaters, seasonal sweaters, and even the occasional cardigan. Sweaters are the comfort food of the clothing world, and cables are the strongest armor that I have. I’ve asked myself why I need to welcome the tacky, the purled, and the hobnob masses yearning to be free. Maybe it’s 90’s nostalgia, or because I was never allowed pets of my own. Though I doubt I’ll ever have an answer, and although I may never be remotely well dressed, at the very least, I’m delightfully warm.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
I am a collector. Of what, I’m not exactly certain. I have a stack of embroidered handkerchiefs on my desk that I haggled for at a flea market in Paris. I have a tall jar of colorful buttons from a bankrupt button factory arranged in a gradient on top of my dresser. I have no less than three typewriters scattered throughout my house. I have gathered a dozen glass bottles in the surf of a bay, and now proudly display them on the shelf next to my bedroom window where the light hits them best.
I suppose, if I had to put a name to it, I would be a collector of memories and atypical mementos. In my own words, I am a mudlarking magpie. I am fascinated by the slightly peculiar, and I revel in the quirks of found objects. I preserve my important moments with tiny trinkets, like autumn leaves between pages of library books, in hopes that they are someday found by a complete stranger.
My memories are preserved it objects of no great worth. Five fond years of summer camp have boiled down to a finger sized piece of barnacle encrusted driftwood. Four years of varsity running has only supplied a handful of dull pyramidal spike pins that I wore in my very first race. These tiny collections, although they are not glamorous by any means, are things that have defined my experiences and created a complex three dimensional scrapbook of my life. I hope that someday, should some handsome archeologist discover these tiny knickknacks, he or she will realize that they have all been much loved.