My Five All-Time-Favorite Albums

You know those albums that are just...perfect? Every song is exceptional, each in a different way. You can't just listen to one or two of the more catchy tracks and be done. Those albums are meant to be listened to in their entirety. They are a work of art. They are...perfection.You love those albums and you know you'll never stop loving them.

Well. For me, these are "those albums."

1. For Emma, Forever Ago - Bon Iver

My goodness, Justin Vernon. It's like he captured every emotion of the human experience and put them into nine tracks of musical ecstasy.

2. The Head And The Heart - The Head And The Heart

I just...love them. I have no words to describe how much I love them.

3. Begin To Hope - Regina Spektor

I'll admit it took me awhile to warm up to this album. Some of the songs are definitely not something you'd hear every day, but I've grown to love them and hear the beauty.

4. Megalithic Symphony - AWOLNATION

What I love about AWOLNATION is that they're like nothing I've ever heard before...and also like everything I've ever heard before. You know?

5. In Between Dreams- Jack Johnson

Relaxing, charming, and just all around lovely.

It will be okay, love.

I want to call you "sweetie." I want to hug you and tell you everything will be okay. I want to tell you that none of them matter because hey, I love you. I want to ask you what's wrong and kiss you and make all the bad go away. I want to say what I would have said if it were four months ago and you hadn't broken my heart.

I hope that's just a shadow of past feelings. I thought I was done, I really did. I thought I knew better than to ever go down that road again.

Bucket List

1. Go in a recording studio.
2. Visit Abbey Road.
3. Take a picture that reflects the world.
4. Make a movie.
5. Learn sign language.
6. Make a difference in someone's life.
7. Buy an old, used record.
8. Write a book.
9. Learn how to whistle.
10. Go to a show on Broadway.
11. Learn how to play poker.
12. Go crowd surfing.
14. Protest something.
15. Sing a solo for an audience.
16. See the Mona Lisa.
17. Visit New York City at Christmas time.
18. Go wake-boarding.
24. Order in a restaurant in a foreign language.
29. Have a creative couple Halloween costume.
35. Kiss someone at midnight on New Year's Eve.
36. Have someone win me a stuffed animal
37. Try to break a world record.
38. Donate blood.
40. Try vegetarianism.
42. Visit all fifty states.
43. Go to a drive-in movie theater.
61. Put a piece of gum on the gum wall in Seattle.
62. See the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park.
69. Go to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.
71. See the Northern Lights.

What if?

I would speculate a lot. Sometimes it was serious, sometimes it wasn't. I would get the funniest thoughts, random scenarios. "What if people didn't have any lips?"  And I would want to share them. Or I would worry."What if you get in a car accident?" I worried that everything that could possibly go wrong, would go wrong.

Your response whenever I voiced these thoughts--whether a ridiculous hypothetical situation or a legitimate concern--was always the same. "What if..?" You would throw it right back at me. As if there were so many infinite possibilities that could happen, why speculate? You didn't get it. Maybe I did worry too much about what might happen. Maybe I should have relaxed a little more. In your mind, why worry? What was the point of all these "what if's"? 

Well, buddy, if you don't worry about "what if's" at least some of the time then you're asking for disaster. I admit I sometimes worry more than I should, but at least I'm always prepared. At least I'm cautious and careful.

As if that weren't annoying enough, you were totally hypocritical about it. "What if we have a miscarriage?" (Ignore how naive I was to think we would actually get married and have kids someday). You worried about things all the time. You had your share of "what if's". Hypocrite. Like I said. 

And now, on Twitter you're all like "What if it changed everything? Blah blah blah." Well, honey, according to you I can't live my entire life by "what if's." I don't have enough time or energy or emotional stability to spend worrying about what you might have to say. Excuse me if I don't jump at the chance to talk to you. Excuse me for having a life, for being busy, for trying to forget about you so I can actually feel better. 

If you have something serious to tell me, just spit it out. Don't leave me guessing whether or not it's worth my time. 

Tell me, please. Tell me what it is, if it is something that will change my world. I have to know, now. 

I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

I wish I didn't care.

Part of me says, "Good Riddance." It's like you don't exist anymore. Not to me.

The other part of me is screaming.

Home

I think I want to go home. The problem? I'm not sure I know where home is anymore.

Is it my hometown? The place I lived for 18 years? I've been missing it lately. My beautiful mountains, my sky, my sunsets out by the volcanos. I miss my city lights, and the view from my kitchen window. I miss what I used to have there, but I think that's gone forever. I miss my friend(s). My parents are there I guess, in the house I grew up in. Quietly doing what they've always done. But in a house where we keep to ourselves and I have to go out to get any normal human interaction, am I home?

Is this my home? This tiny college dorm room in this college town where everyone is the same? Don't get me wrong, I like it here. It's just that sometimes I think about the people here...how they're all so perfect and happy and I'm not, and then I feel trapped and want to leave. I hate the tiny room and the tension and the shallow relationships and not being able to cook or watch a movie. And sometimes I feel so lonely here, I want to scream.

I feel pretty lost, I'm not going to lie. I guess I'll go work on the getting found part.

Love

I think love is when all the happiness someone brings you is worth all the pain that they cause you.

And hey, guess what. I don't love you anymore.

Because

Sometimes, it's nice to be reminded that this world is filled with billions of other people. And sometimes some of those people need your help

Take My Hand

One of my photography assignments was to create an album cover. I wasn't sure what to do, until I thought of my friend Blake who was pursuing music and working on recording an album. Perfect.

We went to the tunnels (well, maybe not THE tunnels...but a place with tunnels when you go down La Orilla). It was kind of awkward. I don't like taking photos of people...too much pressure to make them look good. I can't make someone else feel comfortable in front of a camera when I, myself, wouldn't feel comfortable and when I barely feel adequate behind the camera.

This was one of the first photos I took. Blake offered me his hand to help me from one concrete block to the next as we made our way over to the tunnel. I told him to freeze, and took this.

I took a few other pictures. I used a different one for the assignment. But this photo...this one.

I'm not going to go into some explanation of what it means, symbolism, blah blah blah. You can decide that for yourself. I just...I like it. I like looking at it and thinking "I took this. I captured this moment, and pretty dang well if I say so myself." I don't even like this edit very much. I've never been able to get it to look right on a computer screen. The colors in the print are brighter, and better (I promise).

I like thinking that this photo hangs somewhere in the office of my high school, like I left something behind. Proof I existed, a few years from now when no one remembers me.

I've been thinking about the time I took this photo a lot today. Those months, that life I was living when I took this...wondering if anyone would offer me their hand now.

Monologues, etc.

The post below is my favorite monologue I ever performed during my time in theater. I just love how strong Portia is...how she stands up to Brutus and says "HEY. I'm here. Talk to me. I deserve to know what's going on."

I was thinking today, and wishing I could act again. I've never wanted to pursue theater and really I still don't. I got tired of it and quit and I don't regret that.

I wish I had another chance to act because I want to shout at someone. I want to lace my voice with spite and hatred and tighten my jaw and narrow my eyes. I want to get angry. Well, I already am angry actually. And I want to let that anger out.

That was always the cool thing about acting. I don't remember ever being openly hostile to someone in person. I try to act sweet, quiet, and gentle for the most part. Sweet, quiet, gentle Melissa doesn't shout or spit angry words in someone's face, no matter how much she wants to. When I was acting though, I got to be someone different. I got to be the kind of person who shouts when she's mad. I got to be the kind of person who's voice shakes with anger, who's cold eyes stare the offender down, who's jaw clenches with hatred before she explodes. Even if it was only for a short scene on a small stage a couple times a week during rehearsal.

I'm more angry now than I've been in a long time. And I know even if I were given the opportunity, I would probably just break down and start crying furious tears instead of yelling. I am dying to get on stage again. Give me one monologue...just one...something spiteful, and mean, so I can get it out of my system and start feeling normal again.

Portia

Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus,
Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper,
You suddenly arose, and walk'd about,
Musing and sighing, with your arms across,
And when I ask'd you what the matter was,
You stared upon me with ungentle looks;
I urged you further; then you scratch'd your head,
And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot;
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not,
But, with an angry wafture of your hand,
Gave sign for me to leave you: so I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience
Which seem'd too much enkindled, and withal
Hoping it was but an effect of humour,
Which sometime hath his hour with every man.
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep,
And could it work so much upon your shape
As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

-Portia
William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar

Portraits

Photo by Stephen Dupont - Portrait of a gang member in Papua New Guinea. Dupont took portrait shots of members of the 'Raskols.'

What struck me about these photographs was how Dupont focused on the humanity. For instance, look at this shot. As a photographer, my first inclination would have been to focus on the barrel of the gun. But Dupont chose to focus, in this and other portraits, on the person behind the gun. When we (I'm guilty as well) think of a group such as a violent gang, we tend to think of them collectively rather than the individuals that make up the group. A gang like the Raskols could be percieved by many as a group of faceless, dangerous thugs.

Dupont, however, chose to give a face to someone normally faceless. A worthy goal, it seems to me.


I highly recommend checking out the other photos.
http://lightbox.time.com/2012/10/22/raskols-stephen-duponts-portraits-of-papua-new-guinea-gangsters/#1

Public Thinkers

Today in my writing class, the term "public thinkers" came up.

We read an article from some Washington magazine, criticizing the New York Times magazine, it's "ideology," and the stereotypical culture of New York City in general.

Something about hearing "Manhattan" and "New York Times" made my mind jump to Time magazine and my dream job as a photojournalist, travelling the world and taking meaningful photographs, relevant to current issues. I basically spent the rest of the class daydreaming about that life. I would travel, all over. Be constantly in transit, moving, capturing, working. I would have a fancy studio somewhere in NYC to come home to in between trips.

Anyway, partway through class I realized I should focus more on the present, and I happened to catch the discussion about public thinkers.

The article we read was saying how people like the editor of the New York Times magazine had the "intellectual responsibility" to form and share opinions based on meticulous research, facts, and analysis. The argument was that many "public thinkers," as my professor called them, did none of these things. They simply spewed out whatever they felt like and fed it to the ravenous public.

That got me thinking. Why do we have these "public thinkers?"  Whether they, these political analysts, journalists, newspaper editors, commentators, are well-informed or not...has society really gotten to the point where we need people to think for us?

All of the (sometimes) well-supported opinions we are fed through the media...why are they necessary? Why can't the public be given the facts, and form opinions for ourselves? It wouldn't kill us to synthesize some information, you know.

I just found it interesting that we, as a public, are fed opinions. Maybe someday we will learn to form our own.

From the Colosseum

Sometimes, it feels like my entire life is an out-of-body experience. There are moments...a few minutes, a couple times a year maybe...when I come back into my body and realize that yes, I am me. I am Melissa. I'm living this life, not just watching from somewhere far away. I realize I am not a separate person, I am myself. 

I'm not an observer, following a young lady through the ups and downs of her life. That joy and euphoria that She felt, I felt. The absolute and perfect bliss She used to feel, I felt. That mistake She made? Yeah, that was all me. The guilt was mine, too. The boy who doesn't love Her anymore doesn't love me either.

I have to make the decisions. I can't just sit back and wait for Her to choose a major, or decide to go out and do something with her life.The false sense of apathy I sometimes feel as a supposed observer isn't going to cut it.

I realize I am not a spectator, cheering on the Gladiator sparring with the lion. I am the Gladiator, and I am a few bad calls away from getting eaten.  

Because this is easier than a persuasive letter....

I think I might be a hopeless romantic. I spend my days dreaming of something better that has yet to come. I struggle not having a man to call mine...or even any realistic prospects. I live my life planning out my future with the man of my dreams, whoever he is at the time. At the moment, I have no clue who he could be and that scares me to death.

All I want is to love and to be loved. (I think that's a line from the movie Holes or something.)

 I want someone I can tell everything to, and for that someone to care. Someone who will see the worst in me, and love me despite it. I need to confide in someone. I need to cry in someone's arms. I need physical contact--someone to put his arms around my waist, to rub my back, to kiss me. I need an emotional attachment. I need to TRUST somebody, or I'm going to go insane.

(untitled)

I felt something today. I mean, obviously I've felt a lot recently. You know the anger I've felt. You know the hurt. You know how you've tortured me. You know the absolute fury that fills me when I think about you and what you did and what I let you do.

But today, I felt something good.