In which Australia's second favorite marsupial saves the day

It is time for an update. And I definitely feel more compulsion to write now that almost no one I know or care about (besides Travis) is involved in my daily life. So here goes...

We moved to Las Vegas on Friday, June 22. It was about 105 degrees and cloudless, and it only took about three minutes of moving sundry heavy items up 16 stairs to realize I was in trouble. My heart was racing and I could feel my face turning a bright, tomatoey shade. So I chugged ghastly amounts of water and came up with an ingenious plan of staying cool:

Did you know that kangaroos living in the Outback lick their arms and let it evaporate in order to stay cool? I'm sad to say, this little factoid gave me the idea. No, I did not lick my own arms, though the temptation was real. (Mmm...salty!) Every five minutes, though, I would splash cold water on my face, neck and arms, and by the time I made it back down the stairs to keep moving stuff, I was totally dry--but cool! Let me just say that it TOTALLY worked, and I have Australia's second favorite marsupial (after the koala) to thank for the idea. Hey. Don't bag it till you try it.

 Dad and Sue helped us move for the next three or so hours, and we all took turns resting in order to avoid heat exhaustion. After getting everything in the house, two things were determined: Summer really is a horrid time to move to Nevada. But all that said (and DONE) it was actually time to get some food.

The next day, we were able to take a VIP tour of the Hoover Dam that Sue had arranged for us. She knows the guy who runs the dam (yes. she knows the guy WHO RUNS HOOVER DAM) so we got to explore some places where almost no tourists get to go. Awesome doesn't do it justice. Neither does a photo, but here you go anyway.

It was another hot day.

In fact...let's just get something out of the way here, while we're at it. Fact: It is hot here. There hasn't been a day yet that hasn't soared well above 100 degrees. There are actually some clouds today, which constitutes a minor miracle. But the heat is still seering, and from everything I've been told, will continue to be so for the next few months. So, until further notice, just assume it is hot, and if it isn't, I'll be sure to let you know unless, of course, I first die of the surprise.

Well, that's it for now. There is more to tell--big news, even--but my patience for reporting all things quotidian is remarkable slight. So, for my benefit--and for the readers--I'll keep my updates short.

One last note, though. My parents in law, for my upcoming birthday and graduation, gifted me a Nook a couple weeks ago, and It and I have been inseparable ever since. I had been debating the purchase of an e-reader for some time now and had recently come to the decision to get one. Imagine my delight when, with very little effort on my part, my desire was fulfilled! I have now read all of Peter Pan as well as Pride and Prejudice (alliterations not intended) and my love for my Nook is now very real. It goes with me wherever I take my bag and sleeps on my pillow at night. In fact, i am now in the process of petitioning Harry Reid to draft a law that would allow polyandry in the state of Nevada so that my Nook and I might solemnize our love before a justice of the peace.

Travis doesn't mind. He's used to competing with my love of literature.

Dandelion

 I wish it didn't hurt so much

to pull out my roots.

Like I'm a dandelion (Have you ever tried to pull out a dandelion?)

with a taproot so deep you can

never find the bottom. Eventually, you just have to

SNAP!

that root.

And leave it in the ground.

And hurt.

Where that taproot broke.

Until the little cottony seeds I let fly

find soil,

put down a root or two, and

grow back somewhere else.

A Deep, Mid-afternoon Thought about Art

I'm sitting in my dad's easy-chair, slowly falling asleep at 3 in the afternoon and I'm having this amazing epiphany about visual art.

Many people make the argument that neither this...

Nor this...

...is art. Some people even go as far as to say that this abomination... 

[Thomas Kinkade was here. I removed the photo so I won't get sued.]

...is the only REAL kind of art.

This argument, as far as I am concerned, is as fallacious as claiming that the only REAL kind of communication is that which is verbal. This is, of course, ridiculous. Most communication is non-verbal. Some say 70%, others 90... Regardless of the actual percentage, what experts and (even marginally intelligent people) all seem to agree on is that some large percentage of our communication is done without the employ of phonemes, words, sentences, paragraphs, and really long, boring speeches.

My sudden thought, as I nod off at 3 in the afternoon, is that non-objective art (such as the Mondrian and the Pollock pictured above) is like non-verbal communication. Non-verbal communication is the communication of emotion, of feeling, of the sometimes deeper meaning behind words. (The Kinkade, using this same metaphor, is so "verbal" it makes my eyeballs sting.) John Singer Sargent, in this gem...


...is communicating the placidity of the lighting of Chinese lanterns by two little girls on a midsummer's eve. He does this by actually PAINTING said girls. Likewise, this painting...

[another painting was here, but I removed it so as not to get sued. And because I didn't have the artist's permission.]

...though lacking anything truly representational*, besides little swirlies, communicates the same placidity to me in textures and colors.

 Non-representational representation. Non-verbal communication. Is either less valid than their more representational/verbal counterparts?

"But what do Jackson Pollock's crazy drips of paint even MEAN?" You may ask. I don't know. Does it matter? Art, like any communication, is a two-way process anyway; meaning is created by both the artist and the viewer. And since, in some cases, it is impossible to know the artist's intended meaning, the only thing left to do is decide for ourselves what art means. To me, Jackson Pollock's work looks like it was done, if not angrily, at least passionately. I picture him standing over an enormous canvas furiously flinging each brushful of paint. "But, he could have been totally calm while painting" It doesn't matter, because what I see is Passion.

This Deep Thought was important to me because I have heretofore been largely unmoved by modern, non-objective art. I didn't really consider the point of it. But now I want to see it all. I want to see, and attempt to understand, the artists' "non-verbal" communication. Is Mondrian communicating Boredom? Conformity? Simplicity? If so, he is doing a first-rate job.

I do not consider words to be the only valid form of communication. So, why would I limit my understanding of art to only that which is representational?

Now, back to my nap.


*I use "representational" here to indicate visual art that portrays recognizable objects.

Limbo

Sorry it has been so long. I have resisted posting anything for the last little while, not because there isn't anything to say, but because my emotions have been so up and down, there hasn't been anything worthwhile to say. I have started many a blog post bent on self-revelation and the egocentric ravings of a frightened girl in transition. I can't post any of that. Ultimately, it doesn't mean anything in. All the insecurities I feel about leaving the place of my birth--perhaps forever--my friends, my job... The insecurity is real, but it doesn't matter in the long term. A new place will come to feel like home. I will meet new friends--not to replace existing friends, but to add to them. I will get a new job, and I will probably love it.

Oh, did I forget to mention? We're moving to Las Vegas in less than a month. Yes, you read correctly. Nevada. In June, which, while not quite as infernally hot as July, I think we can all agree that the difference between 105 and 110 degrees is irrelevant. It's all hot.

In the meantime, we have had to move out of our lovely apartment and into my parents' basement until we make the big move. I'm not going to be disingenuous and talk about how hard it is, blah blah blah... because I love it. I love it, because we are eating well, we are living with less (almost all of our earthly possessions are packed into a storage unit), and we are spending valuable time with family. I also love it because it is temporary.

I have also been writing more. I'm writing a novel that has been in progress since I started with one scene over ten years ago. It's hard not to think I will forever remain amonst the ranks of The Unpublished. But when I let the odds get me down I just remember that J.K. Rowling wrote the beginning of Harry Potter on a napkin in a coffee shop. Besides, my end-goal is not fame and fortune--though that would be nice--but to write a complete, cohesive story.

In other news, I received my first job rejection the other day via post-card. It said I was not selected to interview for the position I applied for. Oh well. At least I know that they received the application in the first place. Plus, the box next to "You did not meet the minimum qualifications" on the postcard was not checked, so I know that I can get a similar job. It was probably very competitive and they didn't want to interview someone from out of state. But I'm moving to Nevada, people! ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT I WILL BE LIVING IN YOUR GODFORSAKEN STATE IN LESS THAN A MONTH? Le sigh. I just finished filling out another application and will be mailing that in today. So we press on.

Astor Piazzolla

It's time to introduce you to one of my favorite artists. Astor Piazzolla was born in Argentina in 1921, and was a composer in the musical style of "Nuevo Tango." Basically he took traditional tango and incorporated classical and jazz styles into it. (You know I'm getting all of this from Wikipedia, right?!) All I care about is how absolutely, deliciously seductive this music is! Don't believe me? Here, let me just embed this little video for you...

There. Now, light a candle, close your eyes and let your laptop sing you a forlorn love song.

Workout Diary: Day 30

I've been going to the gym three times a week for almost exactly a month now, and it's time for a progress report. I don't hate cardio anymore (tho I do hate running, and probably always will). I can curl thirty pounds (up from 25) without any help from Travis. Every part of me is getting stronger, harder. I'm pretty much the only one who can see it yet, but I can definitely feel it.

My appetite, not just for food in general but for HEALTHY food, has increased markedly. Today, I actually made myself a sandwich. When was the last time I did that? Probably a year ago. But today, I made myself a sandwich on healthy bread with healthy ingredients, plenty of avocado, and I scarfed that sucker. Yes, I did. And I didn't even workout today! Have I gained any weight? ...Not exactly. But I definitely haven't lost any, which is what I was afraid of in the first place.

I love resistance training. I never thought I would find a form of exercise that I so look forward to doing, even on my days off--like today, where I am still so tired I actually had to take a nap. (horrors.) I'm excited to move to a place that is warm even during the winter months. I think this will help me stay motivated to keep going.

I love the idea that I--little, "fragile" me--can be strong. Can be toned. Can have this lovely, muscular body. Skinny doesn't cut it for me. I find "skinny" totally unsatisfying. It's not enough. Do I want to be slender? Well, yes. But more important to me is to look, and feel, strong. This (mostly) isn't for vanity's sake. It's because--as I mentioned--I hit bottom and the only way to go was up. Well, I'm at that euphoric stage of Up where my progress is made in leaps and bounds. Yes, I know I will plateau at some point. Though, seriously, I don't think that or Hell or high water, or really anything could stop me now. World, look out!

From East of Eden...

...So I don't forget, because this book was thick and contained a lot of truth. This was one of the truthier bits, I thought.

"In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.

We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the neverending contest in ourselves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a new fresh young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in this world."


Timshel.

"Thou mayest."

You have a choice.


--John Steinbeck