I'd like to think that it's super noble of me to be working on papers two weeks ahead of time, on account of Areli and Sam visiting. But it's not. It's shockingly responsible, but noble it ain't. To that end, el blogadero is not exactly going to be brimming with insight, photos or antics. Not until the 4th, anyway.

I'M SO EXCITED!

In retrospect, I should call it "playa theory." Elementary schools everywhere had a sort of anti-love Valentine's day, more or less favoring the kids who weren't exactly winning any beauty pageants. On some level, everyone knew that the "Valentines for everyone or Valentines for no one" mandate was a crock, a pity-play on the part of the teachers. That didn't stop me (and hopefully many others) to treasure the Bart Simpson or Kermit the Frog or Scrooge McDuck proclaiming Platonic love with some kind of pun. Occasionally, people would go all out and make 25 individual cards, attaching a hershey's kiss if they felt racy enough to kiss everyone in class. Therein lay the added benefit of circumventing the dictatorial love structure -- a savvy valentineer could make a little extra effort than the fold-and-cut heart for the Object of Affection. I did. I made a big, florid heart heart for Dylan Watts one year and agonized over what to write on there. My shyness won, of course, and a really ridiculous construction paper monstrosity dwarfed the inane happy-valentine's-day-you-are-really-nice (not those words, but equally lame.) In fact, I usually made my own valentines, either because my folks wouldn't buy the Muppet cards or because I had an ulterior motive.

The store-bought cards confused me after I made my first-ever round of 25 'tines. I had given time to every member of my class, and I got a forum letter back. The impersonality was one thing, but the mass distribution with nothing distinguishing me from the pretty girl, her from the weird boy mystified me. So here's where playa theory comes in. Mass valentines mean one of three things:

1) The sender doesn't care, but wants the candy. This didn't appeal to me, but was probably the most true. Also along these lines is the scattershot theory that sending out 25 valentines ought to yield SOMETHING.
2) The sender actually does love everyone in the class equally, making the same mass-manufactured Daffy Duck a pretty accurate measuring stick for his or her love.
3) The sender knows that there is something about this love thing that is desirable. My elementary school self wasn't so aware of the concept of sex drive, but I had figured out that people want lots of love from lots of people. I wasn't that dim. By way of flimsy, red cardstock, I realized that there is something Machiavellian in love. It's about gaining as much affection as possible at any cost.

In sixth grade, I didn't make valentines, but gave everyone a hershey's kiss instead. In part to satisfy the number ones, in part because of my disgust at the number threes.

I'm happy to say that we've all graduated from that. As well as from the incessant drama of junior high and high school. So let's take this V-day for what its worth and do something free of that sick control. Actually, it's not V-day anymore, which means in 18 hours or so, I should call my dad and wish him a happy birthday. but still. let go of that fucked obligation system.

Not taking pictures really fucks me up. Not writing is bad too, but the photos are an irreplaceable high. It's a reward, a miracle, a feat when something comes out better-than-expected, especially when your expectations are high as hell. So here's some stuff.


I thought of Sophie when I took this one. You know, because of her ferocity.


In which our heroine discovers the best light in her apartment -- it's the bathroom and it's reflecty walls.


Not doing the dishes sometimes results in good things. Really. I think I have about a dozen shots of these almost ethereal lines of starch clinging to my (christmas gift/totally sweet) saucepan. It reminds me of engraving.


Over winter break, my dad and I staked out the birdfeeders outside his bedroom window and had a couple long photo sessions. He has some BEAUTIFUL close-ups of nuthatches, black-capped chickadees and bohemian waxwings -- his little zappy camera has about twice the zoom as my clunker. But I love my clunker because I have more control than those zippity doo-dahs. So there. Anyway, this is a pair of feasting redpoles.


This fellow (Bohemian waxwing) knew I was taking his picture. I mean, look at him.


he's totally midcomplaint. Probably going off on the magpies.


Cropped severely, but otherwise undoctored. All of these were, for that matter.

Since I posted last, I've done some stuff. Such as turn in my financial aid and study abroad applications, make chicken stock again, turn in an agonizing paper for Comp Lit, agonize some more, read from Che Guevara's Guerilla Warfare (as well as some Shakespeare, Drayton, Marlowe, Lanyer, Donne, Nietzsche, Foucault, Rimbaud, blah, blah, blah von blah blah, and blah look at how intellectual I am!!! Reading brilliant minds makes me brilliant!!! ...fucking school... That's really more to illustrate how much crap I've had to do over the past two or three weeks rather than a display of my intellectual chops. I don't have to prove ANYTHING! [ha.]), noted the odd punctuation combination I just created, played Kingdom of Loathing a little too much, seen several movies, gotten an A on said paper, raged between hating school and loving it, and more fairly mundane crap.

I've also started scrawling things in other places, but it's not amounting to much. Nor do I expect it to because I'm finally realizing that that's not the point. Expect stuff later.

My grandma sent me a scarf and hat today. She knits like crazy and sells her wares at the Saturday Market in Anchorage, but winter (except for the holiday bazaars and the occasional substitute teaching job at East) is a dormant period for her. I'm her guinea pig for some new patterns, she said in her note on endearingly florid stationary. She sent me the hats saying she wasn't too fond of them, but I was welcome to keep or distribute them. It was a really sweet gesture; she's not too demonstrative (somewhat Victorian in a way), so it really throws me when she shows me the softer side of Granny. Two Christmases ago, she gave me a couple framed pictures of my mom and her siblings, circa '66 or so. For the longest time, I thought she was sort of ambivalent towards me because I wasn't going to be a party to her dressing me up in pinafores. Learning that's not true is quite the process. I'm wrong a lot.