IX`XXII`MMXI

I can easily enough detect where my plans for greatness, (usually inspired by the New Year), have fallen apart by the large gaps in my journals. I used to have no problem whatsoever writing about my discontent with anything and everything, but I suppose that routine grew tired and old and I finally realized it delivered zero advantages to the cause. I'd rather write about progress instead of stagnancy. Writing about stagnancy only anchors you there. And There is boring.

I'm not going to wait until the New Year to get excited about new beginnings. I'll jump the gun and start now. Why not?

Things I'm Really Excited About/A list of things to revisit as a reminder:

1. I'm going to walk up and down all the 650 staircases in Seattle and write something about all of them, take pictures, and leave something behind. (link)
2. My advanced prose class, sign language class, not so much my Shakespeare class, but I'm willing to be (or not to be) open minded about it.
3. Cold weather & everything that comes with it: hoodies, peacoats, heavy blankets, using my morning coffee as a hand warmer, snugger snuggles, exhaling white clouds, soup!, knitting hats & mittens!
4. Moving to Ballard and having a lot more privacy than my current living situation. Getting acquainted with the neighborhood and reclaiming a portion of my anonymity.
5. Playing catch in the park with Braatzie.
6. Watching Gabe grow up into a respectable young man-cat.
7. Conquering NaNoWriMo!!!!!!! (link)
8. Becoming a stronger swimmer, runner and breaking into rock climbing!
9. Covering stupid pop songs on my ukulele.
10. Writing more!

Exclamations marks!!!!!!

And to conclude this post, here are some ducklings in a sink:

-whitney

Still don't know how to sing and play at the same time. Not even "Row Your Boat"!

III`XII`MMXI

I am mainly writing this for procrastination's sake--since I've worn out sleep as a method to the point it was becoming unnatural and probably fairly unhealthy. The red onesie was plotting to meld with my epidermis, I feared. This afternoon, with full intentions of tackling my final projects and entering Spring Break, I went for a walk to 'clear my head' which is truly a desperate measure since I haven't walked anywhere just for the fuck of it since my feet and King County Metro replaced my Honda back in 2006. I have the Head & Shoulders label almost memorized, replaced two light bulbs despite my fear of even the slightest of heights, and I even offered to do the dishes tonight (and was denied because the clever boyfriend has caught on to my weak and generally repetitive tactics and has since been diligently thwarting them one by one.). Anything, anything, to keep me from having to take the first heinously intimidating step of 'progress'.

On a less superficial plane: I'm burnt out. Not with just this quarter, but with school in it's entirety. All day, I've dreaded my inevitable life, post-grad, as a Starbucks barista, pushing buttons and forcing winning smiles. Fuck.

Hope finals week isn't kicking your ass as much it is mine.

Best,

WEH

II'XXVI'MMXI

The city's face is two dimensional as of late with breaks of sun that remind me ninety degree angles and places to hide if need be, still indeed do exist. I truly miss the sun but have been diligently urging myself to take it as it is with as much appreciation as I can muster while day dreaming of the short shorts and barely there "shirts" that I romped around in last summer. In the mean time, it seems to be snowing every where but here. Mount Rainier and the skyline hangs in the fog, like the Mists of Avalon, disappearing and then reappearing unapologetically. On the way to school with a friend a few years ago, our bus took a turn up Seneca and we caught a glimpse of the sunrise through the gap between the buildings flanking the avenue and we both noted how long it had been since we had the time to stop and admire it. I relive that moment in various ways every day; and it's a cyclical beast that doesn't seem to have any weak spots as of yet. --Since photos of Seattle seem to fall flat this time of year, I've been meaning to take advantage of the time between nightfall and dusk when only the drunkenly slumbering homeless and the occasional taxi shares the otherwise open streets of my neighborhood. Since that seems to be the only period of time my daily inanimate surroundings seem to be at all talkative.

But until then, I'll drown in final projects and academic stress. College!

I`IV`MMXI

"Writing is a social act. It's communal; shared. You're all validated here. You're all writers, congratulations. But to sit behind your computer typing away with the intention of keeping it all to yourself while claiming to be a solitary creative genius is irresponsible. You are responsible to your writing. You are responsible for how you are received. Think of your reader as someone who has never met you. Although you are writing for you before anyone else, you are still writing for someone else."*-- My verse instructor, Will, said this today, (rapidly alongside exaggerated hand gestures).

{which is funny, because I wrote this down in its entirety in my notebook so I could share it}

This is something I've only thought about marginally and momentarily. But after he preached about it for a good half hour, it stuck with me all day. Because it made sense: Why write it down otherwise? Why claim to be a writer? Why write creatively at all? There has to be some subconscious desire to share the things that are being made tangible. A private paper journal will eventually be read by another. Either you'll forget it on the bus (as I have many times), or your snaky room mate will dig it out from under your mattress after you leave to return the late Blockbuster movies, or will inevitably be thumbed through after your funeral by your cousin Jo-Jo. I tend to throw everything out there I create for people to consume and have only taken minimal caution or responsibility for what I was presenting. Which is to say, my purpose has always been fairly self-centered; a search for validation rather than a sheer act of sharing. The finished product has the potential to be something entirely more charged, refined and purposeful if the writer removes their self from their self and fully acknowledges the audience while hashing it out. If you know how to do this, please teach me how.

Which I suppose can be applied to every day life. Your social life, your work life, your love life. Be mindful. Be purposeful. Be considerate.

This in turn brings me to what my American Lit prof said "You can take corn and either make Fritos or polenta."

Resolution no. 2 for 2011: Make polenta from here on out.

*sliiiightly paraphrased.

I`III`MMXI

I'm generally opposed to being in the Udistrict at night, even on campus. But it is undeniably when it's most alluring. First day of the quarter as a senior went remarkably well. Both my craft of prose prof & my American Lit prof are incredibly entertaining and engaging. And my class rooms, while demanding of a trek across campus, are warmly lit and plentiful with windows. I feel really good about not needing to dig desperately for motivation to come to class, to listen, to write and to enjoy it- for once. Which is sad, because UW is really great school and I should have felt as enchanted with it as I am now for the entire time I've been attending. I guess once you become disillusioned with one aspect of your life, it slowly begins to creep into rest until it's all one big ugly gray area. Change your ways while you're young, I suppose. Since I used my brain for the first time today in weeks, I'm going to bed early like an old woman. Coffee shall propel me into a graduation gown, I tell you. Good night.

I`II`MMXI

My usual arrival into the New Year is much like that of a teenager, fumbling around in the dark with another naked form for the first time; eager, nervous, and generally disappointing in retrospect. My plan of attack this year, however, is to not be so zealous, be a bit more purposeful with my movements, keep the lights on-- so to speak. Over all else, my main ambition is to learn how to not take unreasonable things too seriously, and finding and focusing on what's really worth laboring over. (Especially my writing, wish me luck with that one).

My mom has always said 'Be careful how you spend New Years Eve, it mirrors how the rest of the year will pan out'--in so many words. And she seems to have been right so far. I spent the two Dec 31sts (before the last) miserable, trying to pretend to be happy about where I was and who I was with. And the following days after felt nothing short of miserably forced. This NYE, I stood with a new great friend, our arms around each other, a glass of champagne in each of our hands, cheering unabashedly in a perfect little townie bar. Which is to say things should unfold in the next 365 rather nicely, I think.

one resolution of many: correct my faulty grammar skills.