August’s Last Note

The last note to August: a collage containing a handful of my favorite photos from the end of summer. August was a full 31 days, brimming with books and soft pretzels at the state fair, warm letters and coffee, a wonderful boyfriend and puppy lovings. August was a month to discover that my closet is half full of clothes from Target and that I have a knack for playing duckpin bowling. August was a month to say yes to taking the scenic route, to devouring pizza after midnight, to meeting up with old friends, and to eating ramen after yoga class. August was a month for remembering the old, and remembering all that we’ve been given while being thankful for it, both in the past and in the now. August was a month that ended with a sigh of relief, followed by a cheer when the Hoosier’s won the first football game of the season.

Colorado – The Royal Gorge

Ridges and red rocks surrounded us 360º, and we were in the center of it, dangling from a little gondola,  1,053 feet above the ground. The little gondola slid along as I snapped pictures of the scenic view. The mountains were hues of blue in the distance and the red canon rock flamboyantly showed off its splendor. Below was the Arkenswa river, rushing past, making white caps while the water pushed past the rocks. And amongst it all was the bridge — the largest suspension bridge in America — standing its ground, tall and proud. 

While walking across the bridge you could look down and see through the crakes between the plants. It was kind of insane to think about how such a structure could keep that high you up and let you view for miles. 

Around mid-day, we made the climb down the gorge, through the mountains and out to the plains. The thing that’s cool about being out in the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains is that when you look North, you see a big rocky wall that ripples and winds. Yet, just turn your head to the South and you can see as far as your eyes can see. There’s nothing for miles and miles. I can definitely say that this day was one for the books. 

Life As I Know It

I haven’t written in awhile. The pull of insecurity and lack of words has left me stumped in front of the keyboard. What in the world would I write down, anyway? My life is crazier than you can imagine and hope for change in the near future is weak. Maybe I’m just being pessimistic. An optimistic point of view is something I’ve been in desperate need of. I think this wonderful Sunday afternoon might be helping it, however.
I should really be studying, or writing the paper that’s due at 11:59 pm tonight. But you only get these days of fresh air and the ability to open the windows and breath it in while you sit inside on the couch writing, once. Once as in, like once a week if you’re lucky. The weather can be bipolar. So I’m resisting the call of assignments due and instead, sitting in the sunlight, trying also, to resist the insecurity and lack of words that is my writing.

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The tree outside in our neighbor’s yard is beautiful this time of year. The spring buds bloom into purple flowers. I wish the tree was in our yards so I could photograph it better. At least I’m able to look out at it when I drink my coffee in the morning.
The tulips are also in bloom, meaning it’s officially spring. The fact that Easter is next Sunday is crazy to me. It’s crazy how time flies by so fast. I have so many things to get done anymore, my to-do list is never ending, that I never have time to stop and smell the flowers. 

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About half of the photos on my camera nowadays are of my pup, in all her glory. She likes to walk around the house and sneak our slippers or socks when she can find them. Once she has them in her grasp she likes to run all around the house until we catch her, which may take up to 15 to 20 minutes. She’s a fast runner and knows how to escape from sticky situations. Good for her, but it makes it harder on the person who is trying to get their shoe back.

Fragments From 11:29pm

It’s 11:29 pm and I wish I could be sleeping right now. My eyes are tired and probably bloodshot, yet my mind is keeping me awake, pondering about tomorrow’s workload, the long list of tasks that need to be done, and if I’ll be able to meet up with a new friend this Tuesday. My room is completely dark except for the glow coming from my computer screen. My white bed sheets reflecting the light, making it luminous.
 I’m here, I’m up, whether I want to be or not. I’m going to write. 

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  I’ve read that when people — artist particularly  — are up this late, not able to sleep, they end up creating beautiful pieces of art or writing. It’s when they work best. In the quietness, while everyone else is resting. The night stars make a great companion when getting all your ideas out onto paper or canvas. I wish I could do that. That’s kind of what I’m longing to create right now, as my brain foils and tumbles, all I wish to do is create something of worth, something of importance, a piece that will mean something to someone out there somewhere. A lot of some’s. 

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I wish creating was as easy as some people describe it to be. The elegant, romantic, un-agonizing way of making a masterpiece. I wish it was that easy. I wish I wish, I wish. But it’s not. It’s hard and toiling and lonesome. It’s excruciating at some points. Where your just fighting with yourself just to write, just to get something out on the page. It’s not as easy as some people think or make it out to be. Art is a glorious, wonderful thing that you birth out of long hours and late nights and still, quiet, lonesome bedsides. It’s not something that just happens on a whim, very rarely is it that, it’s worked connately with, you mold it and shape it like a potter does when he’s making a pot. You have to work with your hands and put int a lot of hours. Time, patience, and pain create the most beautiful art out there in existence. I’m just lucky enough to be able to create.

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I think I’ve learned why an English major has to have four semesters of a foreign language as a part of their schooling. When you learn a language that is not your own and that you did not learn at a young age, you really have to submerge yourself in it; become one with it. You have to dive deep in the dialect and words and sounds that are not your own, that are foreign to you and try to understand and learn them. That language, for someone else, is a way of speaking and communicating. It’s a part of their daily lives that, without it, they couldn’t get along. Writing is an art of language and communication, and there are different languages to that art. It only makes sense to learn and diciest another language other than your own because in by doing that, you not only get more depth about the art of language, but you understand your own native language better. You’re able to take apart and see how each salable, each noun, each letter comes together to make something so powerful it’s able to rip someone’s heart in two. 
Language is a powerful thing, and when we take the step to sink into one more than our own native language, we’re able to understand the depths of it on a deeper level. I think that might be, at least one some reason, why English majors have to take 4 semesters worth of a foreign language. For me, that is French. And so far, I love it deeply. 
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Never so much in my life have I realized this strongly that I want to be a writer. 
    Throughout elementary school and middle school, I wrote in journals constantly. Writing entries, newspaper articles, stories, and poems. I loved it. It was a way of freedom and processing. I never thought,at least at that age that I’d turn it into something I’d do for the rest of me life. 
  Once I got into high school I kind of tossed the idea of being a writer out the window because I didn’t think it fit me. I thought I’d outgrown it. I threw around the idea of being a singer/songwriter, then a painter, then a designer, and then a photographer. I thought those fit me better until I slowly started to outgrown one idea and into another, all the while I’d always unconsciously go back to writing. 
When I was trying to pick a major for college, I couldn’t decide. I went my whole first year not quite knowing what I wanted to major in. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I decided to double major in Writing and Literacy and Creative Writing. It feels good to have that decision done, and it feels good because I know it’s a right one. 
Whatever I’ve done throughout my life I’ve always gone back to writing, so I know, whatever my job may be in the future, that it will be something involving writing. It’s in my DNA. 
As I said, it’s not until just now that I’ve realized that I want to be a writer so bad. Digging deeper into it, gaining knowledge and understanding, figuring out who I am all led me to realize how much I love and depend on this art forum to express me and make me who I am. Not through anything else have I discovered more about myself than through putting words on a page. The pull, the strong pull I asked God to put there when I make tough dissections, is there when I think of writing as part of my future. Just thinking about how it can be intertwined in my daily life makes me giddy. It makes me want to start now, which I probably should, I just have to balance everything else along with it. 
I just know, now deep in my heart, after all, this struggle, that writing, the art of language, is the right thing for me. I know it. I can feel it. I still have so much to learn, though. I’m not perfect yet and I’m far from being there. I’m taking college as my chance to move up more on the spectrum, learn, grow, and be the best I can be. 

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It’s 12:29pm now and I think I can finally get some sleep, Goodnight.