there's more to life than just to live

{so you don't like their music---but how hot is this?}

Last night I learned how to build a computer. That was cool. And yesterday I played a Melodica in Brigham Square. That was cool, too. But not as cool as this.

We were discussing deep things at our kitchen table when it happened: that throbbing, incessant need to do something a little crazy. But at 10 o'clock in Provo? Prospects seemed dim. I checked Fandango on a whim, hoping that a late night movie might cut it et voila! University Cinemark. Jonas Brothers Concert in 3D. Special Engagement. 12:01 a.m. It only took a slow look and a raised eyebrow before we were off to the closet, pulling out our best and brightest to play up the fangirl.

There are about a million reasons why I loved it to pieces. Most of it you'll have to experience, but three I'll try to explain here. One, everyone in the theater took the concert tag quite literally, screaming and crying at the boys' arrival, clapping along to the beat, singing out loud when they turned the mic to the audience. We even ran and jumped and danced up the aisles. Two, it's high energy and tween-time fun. I loved just being as crazy as possible and not caring a bit. Finally, the behind-the-scenes footage confirmed all our suspicions: my sisters and I are basically the Jonas Brothers in female form. Naomi would fill Nick's sweetheart shoes in a sugared heartbeat, and it isn't hard to imagine Olivia taking center stage in both fashion and wit. Which leaves me, of course, to Kevin's fate---a joke my family still finds funny but I found a little too true last night. I would so completely be the one who took things way too seriously and then tried to be cool about it, too.

Like I said, the rest has to be experienced. But here's a sneak peak in case you're not quite convinced:

Demi Lovato + Taylor Swift show up for a guest spot.
Who doesn't want to see the Joe/Tay chemistry from back before the drama?

Nick is definitely the superstar of this show, first battling it out on the drums, then sliding onto the piano bench, and always crooning away on his guitar*. This little stretch of singing in the park was particularly moving, with a montage of modestly-dressed, bright-smiling couples wandering hand in hand along city streets and mountain trails while the JoBros sing about finding true, eternal love. If I didn't know any better, I'd think it were commissioned by BYU.

*see also: cartwheels and back flips

I even managed to snag a rather deep, dreamlike shot of my man.
Destiny has been kind, indeed.

Now, let's talk about this for a minute:

Nick gets the dapper horse driver and swell suit.
Joe plays up the moustache and tough love in a cop role.
And Kevin's working the hot dog stand.

Does he ask for this humiliation, or does it just come naturally?

You also get to wear super-chic shades, which I have on good authority
were designed by the Js themselves for ultimate cool.

We were total rockstars. You could be, too.

well of lost plots

{via new york public library}

I just heard the most disturbing thing from my Humanities professor: there is no such thing as a librarian anymore.

No, it's true! According to the professional side of things, he is currently a Knowledge Manager, which actually makes me want to curl up in a corner somewhere until it's all over. You can have your gingerbread persons and deferred success, but don't you dare go near my books.

In other upsetting world news (though this one is specific to me, so skip if you'd like to be spared the complaint), I got my Humanities midterm back only to find the grading rubric completely backwards. Here's how he does it: each component he deems worthy of an essay is assigned a number on his grading sheet. If said component doesn't make it into your essay, he writes said number alongside your essay and subtracts the points as necessary. If, however, you happen to say something original and inspiring and relative to the prompt, you get a plus sign as well, which count for five points apiece in hopes that you might redeem yourself along the way. Here's what my essay margin looked like:

2
6
9(1/2)
12
14
____
36
+
+
+
____
-21

I stayed after class. "So," I began, trying to be reasonable, "just to make sure, for my next essay, what you want is more of a list? Paragraphs held together with facts and no noticeable transition?" He nodded, smiling.

P: More or less, yes. I want to see that you've successfully read the reading and payed attention to my lectures.

E: Right. But shouldn't an essay show . . . well, more of a synthesis? That not only did you read and listen, but processed the information and made it your own?

P: (completely ignoring me) Well, for example, remember what I said about Copernicus? How he'd read so much as a result of the print revolution? That's all you needed to say in order to get the points for number fourteen.

E: Okay, but what about all the rest I said about Copernicus? That doesn't count?

P: No, but look---you made up for it in the plus signs. This was extremely well-written and thoughtful. Very enjoyable. I don't think I've ever given anybody so many plus signs.

E: (gives up) Well, thank you. Now I know how to prepare for the next essay. Very insightful.

P: Excellent. See you Thursday, then? I'm looking forward to that research paper. The Aldine Press is fascinating.

This little conversation wasn't remotely hopeful, especially as I'm in the midst of Fellowing, too. If my students only had to worry about list-making, we'd be in good shape.

{I should probably take this moment to explain that I do like my professor, I do. He's put together a well-rounded curriculum and always manages a good class discussion. But he says Italian and Italy with a hard I at the beginning, and it hasn't improved much from there.}

i'd like to thank the academy

For finally actually giving The Best to THE BEST.

{love doesn't even begin to describe the way I feel about Dev Patel}

it is written

The problem with this blogging thing is that it comes and goes; there are days where simply everything yaps at me to be posted, and others where I instead agree with that ever-nagging voice in my head---what's it worth, anyway? who are you to blog? no one reads this, E. shut up---and lose myself to books and arting for a while. Obviously I gave myself over to the latter these past two weeks, though while I did get quite a lot of good reading and several projects in that isn't to say I completely forgot about this little corner of the internet. I took notes, even. I mean, if I had been up to the blogging, I might have said something about:

VALENTINE'S DAY ::: I love love. Annoyed with the Singles' Awareness Day blather. As the Lovely Liv said, It's about love, any love! And I will celebrate the man with the magnifying glass.

FELICITY ::: Once you get past the late 90s flair, this TV show is a fast favorite. The fact that Liv loves Ben and I heart Noel is just a wonderfully telling bonus.

SORELLA STEVENS ::: Un'amica del cuore, a Milano.

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE ::: I finally have an answer to that pesky what's your favorite movie question. Love is new all over again.

All of which might have been worthwhile and perhaps interesting, but the emotion has passed and you are now stuck with this:

Last week I discovered How to Analyze Your Handwriting in between my search for more important, required reading. It is a lovely little volume full of in-depth thoughts on the letter forms of such greats as Franklin, Mendelssohn, Churchill and Samuel Johnson, and concludes with a ten-page test for your own calligraphy. Apparently you can tell all sorts of personality from the way you link your As and Os, from the slant of a T or the loop of a Y; pride, sensitivity, spontaneity, logic all revealed in a sentence or two.

Anyway, apparently (according to a Mr. Manfred Lowengard) I am all sorts of normal. A good 45 questions drilling my habits from margins to i-dots, and nearly half my results were something along the lines of "This is normal" or "This is normal and means little on its own" while I passed far more exciting options like "This shows balance and lack of pretention, a desire to stick to essentials" or "A sure sign of neurosis: an obsessive love of order and self-control." I mean, I guess it's kind of comforting, in it's own odd way (Hey, normal! That's good, right?), but quite a lot of me is a little disappointed. This was supposed to be the answer! This was supposed to fix it all, to make me make sense! After the Color Code, that is.

And . . . there you go. Another completely pointless post from me. Huzzah.

soak up every last ray of its warmth

{click for larger version}

You don't have to know me long to know that I'm obsessed
with all things World War II---and the fashion
is no exception. So I'm super glad I have
sisters + roommates
who indulge me in my spontaneity.

Such pretty people, too!

{get all the glamour here}

now, what I want is facts.

Aside from the fact that Ren's been talking in a quasi-Irish/New York accent for the last hour, and this post, and the completely magical moment where we pinky-promised at the exact same time (that's a jinx I just don't know how to deal with), I really love her most for this:

E: "I'm supposed to be reading Dickens right now."

R: "Oh, what one?"

E: "Hard Times. All of it."

R: "Right. So basically it's like the something-hundreds and everyone's going through hard times because life is hard, you know. But they all have their hard times separately, but intertwined, like a net together. And some of them persevere but some of them just give up, probably. And there's probably someone named Clive, or Tiny Tim. Hard Times applies every time you're having hard times, which is a lot times. Today I had hard times. Yesterday I had hard times. Tomorrow I'll have hard times. So the moral of the story is, when you have hard times, it's important to read Dickens' book called Hard Times because it makes us realise that at least we aren't wearing funny clothes or eating hard bread and also it's important to know that it's called hard times for these times, and it aims to highlight the social and economic pressures that some people were experiencing, unlike some other novels of the time. It's unique because it's not set in London. He's also satiring, so you know that's going to be good. Especially since the first book is called Sowing. Which is symbolic, because you know, The Sow and the Wing. And you reap what you sow. And it's important to sow good works or else you'll have hard times."

(pause)

R: "I've never read it."

pretty person of the year award

I woke up to waffles this morning.
And a packed lunch by the door.

Along with a note full of love + encouragement.

I do not deserve people like this in my life, much less roommates.

(but I'm so dearly glad to have you, all the same)

Liz, I adore you.

they build buildings so tall these days

Have we talked about how much I love my brother? Probably not enough. ONE, he's a total stud. All that athletic ability so innate to both mum+dad skipped straight to him, and he routinely returns victorious from various fields and courts and competitions. TWO, he's also super heartthrob material. There's that smile, of course, but he's also got the personality to match, all charisma and the most sincere sensitivity to all those around him. Then, to top this all off (THREE), he whips out his art skillz. I know, right?

I found this little corner of a sketch on the round table when I was home this weekend, and it turns out it was pretty prophetic, too. Monday? Beautiful. Skipping through fields of wildflowers. Tuesday? A long and tiring hike across clifftops, but worth the view. Wednesday? Should've known there'd be a shark behind my shoulder.

I am now going to listen to This Song is Actually Called Happiness a few more times and then maybe cry myself to sleep.

Okay. So maybe it's not that bad. But I do feel like throwing things at walls.

good ideas:

O Valencia! at maximum volume.

Boys with messenger bags.

M+M brownies.

and

(maybe, possibly, the jury's still out)
sleep.

just keep your head and play it as it plays

I spent the last weekend in Salt Lake, where I received continually strange and stranger texts from my apartment back in Provo. I mean, what do argyle socks have to do with my typical Saturday? Turns out my roommates were at new heights of awesomeness (which, come to think of it, isn't all that unusual) and had composed an incredibly precise, all-comprehensive, four-page Dating Application for us single ladies in s204. I immediately took it to press, prettied up the layout (I love you, Century Gothic), printed two dozen and hung a sign in the window: Apply Within.

Thing is, it worked. Wait, present tense: it's working.

Not only have we had four six replies already and another ten expected to be returned within the week, but these boys are proving their worth---when you get the hometown/major questions out of the way, you seriously get to the heart of things. Noteworthy:

::: two applicants speak Latvian. Anyone else just love that this place even exists*?
::: California, however, is really not a country. Just . . . no.
::: Mr. Darcy > everyone else. Excellent essay, if you ask me.
::: Gary Larsen, favorite artist? I'll have to think about that. But Simon Dewey? Nix.
and
::: I am America and So Can You? Yes. Duck Hunting? No. Sigh. You win some, you lose some.

Acceptance letters should be filed by Friday and, as we here at s204 work with Rolling Admissions, will continue through the end of semester. Interested? Intrigued? Comment. Email. You know where to find me and we look forward to the review---though if you can hum that post title, don't bother. You're in.

*Except, of course, in Italy. Sorry, Kimberly.

walk two moons

I wore Ren's shoes to school today, a combination of necessity and comfort because a) I woke up way too late to be running to class in my usual heels and b) I had two, two-hour midterms in a row this afternoon and Chucks seemed like a good idea---especially green, embroidered ones like Ren's. Still, not that big of a deal, right? Wrong.

I was confused all day. The shoes are so entirely Ren that I had a hard time understanding that they were on my feet. I would literally look down and reevaluate exactly who I thought I was. It was an incredibly taxing psychological experiment, to say the least, and then people had to go and confuse me even more, saying Hi and What's up and How are you doing as if they knew me (they didn't). This happened at least twelve times, and I would like to say that this is simply because I do try to smile and be approachable but today wasn't exactly a stellar sort of E day, and I made no effort whatsoever to even make eye contact. And after conjugating heißen half a dozen different ways and explicating elements of Orientalism in Keats, I wasn't smiling, either.

Weird, weird day.