board games.

I can't deny the magic of moments like last night, where friends gather around a table, pretenses are dropped, and everyone just enjoys the simplicity of snacking and playing board games for six straight hours. There seems to be so much going on with everyone lately, and there are weekends where it seems to catch up with all of us and the air feels heavier than it should.

There aren't many solutions I can offer anymore, but it does feel great to hear the people you love, laugh.

tomorrow.

You know one of those days where you feel like anyone but who you truly think you are inside, and maybe a little of bit of your actual crazy leaked out just a tad for everyone else to see (yeah, we all have it, but yeah, none of us want others to know), and the whole day passes in a fog and feels like one you'd do all over again if given the chance?

I'm a little bummed that the first day of being 24 was one of those for me, and I know it's absolutely no one's fault but my own. Birthdays, New Year's, anniversaries — they're all perfect moments to utilize as an opportunity — a crossroads of sorts — to be a better person and do better things from here on out.

So I don't know if it's technically allowed, but what I'm going to do right now is take a long nap, read Stephen King till I forget I'm not actually part of the book, and then start over again tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'll be 24, and tomorrow I'll be better.

a poem a day.

I read this today and liked it enough, that I thought I'd share. It made me want to paint a picture.

Louisa 

After Accompanying her on a Mountain Excursion

I met Louisa in the shade,

And, having seen that lovely Maid,

Why should I fear to say

That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong;

And down the rocks can leap along

Like rivulets in May?

And she hath smiles to earth unknown;

Smiles, that with motion of their own

Do spread, and sink, and rise;

That come and go with endless play,

And ever, as they pass away,

Are hidden in her eyes.

She loves her fire, her cottage-home;

Yet o'er the moorland will she roam

In weather rough and bleak;

And, when against the wind she strains,

Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains

That sparkle on her cheek.

Take all that's mine 'beneath the moon,'

If I with her but half a noon

May sit beneath the walls

Of some old cave, or mossy nook,

When up she winds along the brook

To hunt the waterfalls.

-William Wordsworth

some more Holga fun.

It's interesting to compare the same shot taken by a different camera, with little to no editing done to any of the pictures. So much changes — technically, you capture completely different specs of the same scene even when shooting from the exact same reference point. More strikingly though is how each photo conveys a completely different emotion and mood when transitioning from Nikon to Holga, and vice versa. And here's why I'm a total nerd: I could talk about how that blows my mind for hours if I was with someone who would let me. :)

Holga shot #1, versus.....

...the same Santa Ana back alley taken with my Nikon.

An abandoned construction site snapped by a Holga, versus...

...the same site and scenery taken by a Nikon.

Another Santa Ana alley seen through a Holga, versus...

...the view through a Nikon.

How poignant is it that the same exact image portrays a completely different message, based on simple lighting and color variations of which I didn't even control? 

And what message speaks to you louder?

my budding relationship with Holga.

Awhile back my friend Sacha recommended I try taking a break from the technical, higher-quality world of digital photography and try shooting some pictures with a Holga. Holga is basically a toy camera made out of plastic: cheap, clunky, and awesome. Every Holga is a bit different. Since it is constructed somewhat (though by no mistake) poorly, every Holga leaks in various amounts of light in what could essentially be thought of as a photographic fingerprint once the film is processed.

I had been warned that it took some getting used to, that managing your Holga was akin to the beginning of a new relationship where you still haven't learned the quirks and idiosyncrasies of your significant other. That is definitely the case, and after shooting two rolls of film this past Saturday, there were only  three pictures I actually thought were worthwhile once developed.

But it's a learning process, and something I'd like to keep practicing. Maybe I only got three good shots out of 24, but I guarantee you I'd never get three shots like these with my Nikon D40.

street scenes, and "The Simpsons" sidenote.

I had a whole post planned out for this, but lost all energy required to write it out. Moral of the story: Perhaps a whole two people know how lost internally I've felt the last week and just how heavy it's weighing on my heart, and Saturday I woke up feeling that for some reason, exploring the depths of Santa Ana back alleys would quell some of that unease. Some day I'm sure I'll take pictures of pretty things, but on Saturday, the broken was more beautiful, and Santa Ana is a certified gold mine when it comes to decaying architecture and construction sites left in shambles. 

Here's some of my favorite shots from the afternoon.

Total sidenote: I think it's completely awesome and probably greatly underappreciated that after 21 seasons of being on the air, "The Simpsons" manages to come up with a new couch-intro every time.

coffee-table nostalgia.

Barnes & Noble (or Barnes as us cool kids call it) is my safe haven, a place I retreat to on a weekly basis to relax, refuel, and often spend money I don't have. No matter if I'm feeling on top of the world or like the fatter kid on a see-saw, a trip to Barnes always leaves me content.

As I was aimlessly wandering around aisles of books last night, I stumbled upon a table of children's stories — the kind from my own personal wonder years that I remember learning to sound out my first words to, the bedtime stories I used to imagine being a part of, classics like "The Giving Tree" and "Where the Wild Things Are."

I tried to be responsible and wander over to the nearby history section for some grown-up reading, but instead found myself repeatedly drawn back to that table. I experienced the most overwhelming maternal urge to buy every single one of those books from my childhood. I wanted to own all of them and save them somewhere in a box for the next 10 years, partly out of nostalgia and partly out of an irrational fear that those stories somehow wouldn't be around anymore for me to share when I finally did get around to having kids.

Let's be clear, I'm in no rush to be a mom; I can barely feed and clothe myself, let alone someone else. I'm perfectly content with running around the house for two hours with someone else's awesome 3-year-old, then returning home for a nap right about the time she refuses to adhere to potty training. I think last night instead came more from something that rears its head every now and then for me: the fear that I won't be able to make things the way they should be, when I want to and how I want to, in my future. I've lived enough to learn not to have a set timeline, but I have an eventual image of what I'd like my life to look like — an artistic, challenging career; a nice balance of I-am-woman, hear-me-roar independence combined with a loving family and husband — I don't care when it takes shape, but I hope it one day does.

Whether that life is in 10 years or 20 really makes no difference to me, yet I occasionally have these moments of mini panic attacks where I just don't see how I will ever get there. I'm at an art show where my photograph doesn't sell and I can't fathom how I'll ever be able to turn what I love into a sustainable life, and somehow that results in me standing in the middle of a bookstore days later, no longer able to imagine instilling the same wonder I once had for Max and his monsters in my future son or daughter. (And yes, I know this makes no real sense.) How does the girl who can't pay a bill on time and can't even sell one photograph become the successful woman I see in my head who has it all together?

I wandered that Barnes last night and quite honestly, didn't have any answers for myself.

There's a sequel to "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" that my stepdad used to read to me before I went to bed every night, where Charlie takes the glass elevator up to space and meets aliens who contort their bodies to spell out ominous warnings.

For a very long time, every elevator I got onto I would close my eyes and wish it would shoot straight through the roof into outer space.

At 8 years old, I discovered storage space under the stairs at the house we were renting, and I was absolutely convinced I had stumbled upon the present-day entrance to Narnia.

I would hide from my younger brothers there and throw every bit of strength I had against every wall, never ready to give up hope that one day one bit of plaster would give way to a snow-covered forest and an evil queen with Turkish Delight.

I had bright red, buckled sandals as a little girl.

I used to pretend they were Dorothy's slippers, and every sidewalk was the yellow brick road, every footstep taking me a bit closer to some exotic location like the Emerald City. Those childhood stories hold adventure and innocence in a way that I don't know how to find anymore.

It's silly what we want as little kids.

It's poignant that we still want it as adults.