On Self-Portraits

I'm writing this instead of packing. And because I just went to change the song on my itunes and saw in the next window, my open "Pictures" folder, a sub-folder entitled "self." I was curious, so I clicked on it (sob story of the internet...). I almost laughed at the pictures I found there. Back in the day, I had a brief foray into photography. And by "brief foray" I mean I worked my point-and-shoot canon to the bone in high school and upgraded to a nikon dslr in college. I also mean that I tried really hard to be artsy and took a lot of pictures of flowers. And then went on to upload those pictures to flickr and beg people to pay attention to me. Luckily for everyone I"m over that now (mostly) and tend to opt for taking bazillions of pictures of my unsuspecting friends whenever I re-discover my camera. You're welcome.


Anyway. The point. I found all these old self portraits. I rarely took pictures of myself for various self-deprecating reasons, most of which were simply due to the fact that I was in high school and puberty is a bitch. The rest of them are due to the fact that I hate self portraits, mostly in painting or drawing terms but in photography terms as well. For no real reason, really, other than I hate having to stare at my own face for that long and I hate that everyone can tell when it doesn't turn out as intended. As far as the photography self-portraits went, half of them are too close to my super-smiley face, the other half were me looking away from the camera, being "moody" and "angry" and whatnot. [High school Hallie would be so mad at me right now. Anyway, moving on...] There were also some random pictures of just me that I didn't know where to file (I have an extensive filing system for my pictures that's only half-carried through. Thus I have lots of categories of organization but nothing's really organized into said categories. I'm gong on an awful lot of tangents tonight, my apologies). Right at the end there were two recent pictures of me that I'd taken off my camera and dumped in the appropriate folder.

The difference was both astounding and hilarious; I sat there for a good solid minute just flipping back and forth between a picture of me at probably sixteen and a picture of me from the beginning of the summer. It's not that I look better in either picture, necessarily, I just look different. I remember taking the picture at sixteen. It was supposed to go next to a bio of me for something and thus had to be just me and my smiling face. My mom took the picture. I felt awkward. I didn't know what to do with my arms. Or my hands. Or my face. The result is a shot my mom took of my as I was about to laugh, which I deemed good enough and turned in even though I didn't like it very much. The recent picture was taken this summer, right after I had gotten a haircut. I wanted to send the picture to a friend because the haircut was ever so slightly different than my usual fare and I was feeling sassy and all that. Oh, what a difference a few years make.

That's really the point I'm trying to make here, if I'm trying to make a point at all instead of just aimlessly procrastinating, is that I'm a lot different from the person I was in high school. In a lot of ways. In a lot of good ways. And that's all I have to say about that. 

"Be pretty if you can, be witty if you must, but be gracious if it kills you." - Elsie de Wolfe


Another sample from the aforementioned "Quotes" Word doc...this one came from Matchbook Magazine's facebook page. I recently discovered this charming online magazine and, let me tell you, it has become my guide to life.

Oh. Hi, Blog.

So I haven't been around much lately. I'm not sure whether you noticed or not but I'm going to pretend that I did. I''m not really sure why I've been gone or where I've been. I thought when I started this blog that it would sort of be the dumping grounds for all my super great thoughts. Turns out, I don't have that many great thoughts that I'd like to share with the whole wide internet.

I had some thoughts today, though. I'm not sure if they're internet-worthy, but I'm going to write them down anyway. I'm starting school again in a week. I went to get Chinese food for dinner tonight and as I drove back, with the windows down and the cool summer evening rushing around me and the baseball game on the radio, I thought about my summer. It's been a weird one, not necessarily because anything has or hasn't happened, but because of that blank space in between the two extremes. I'm trying to be deep here and it's not really working, but basically I'm glad that I finally seem to be accepting the fact that everything moves forward, myself included.  

Stay tuned for the remainder of my summer posts...I've been crafty lately and I want to share the stuff I've made with you. :)

More about Baseball

  When America's favorite past time is used as a parent-child bonding experience, its powers typically extend to fathers and sons. Maybe fathers and daughters as well, but mostly, I think (and I'm stereotyping here as well as using way too many commas for one sentence), it's a father-son thing. Not in my family. For me, watching baseball is strictly a mother-daughter activity.
  My mother's love of baseball goes way back. She used to be a die-hard Dodgers fan. In the early phase of my parents' courtship, my dad would suffer through hours of Dodger games, detesting the activity but enjoying the company. Then the Dodgers went on strike (something about demanding higher wages...I'm not really in the know on this one) and my mom became disenchanted with the sport. Thus, I grew up exposed to football fandom instead. That one never really stuck.
  I'm not sure how this happened, but my mom fell in love with baseball again right around the same time I was falling in love with it for the first time. [See my post on the Giants]. When I came home from school for the summer, we really got the fever (baseball, not Bieber. just to clarify). Whenever the Giants played, we were watching. Or listening. Or trying to find the scores online while on vacation.
  Mom taught me the rules, suffered my questions, corrected me when my "coaching" of the TV was a little off. Thus, some of my favorite memories from this summer are watching baseball with her. During night games, late in the 7th or 8th inning, after my dad and my sister have gone to bed, my mom and I can be found telling at the TV in unison, calling out, "you have got to be freaking kidding me!" with identical intonation and inflections.
  The boys of summer have given my mom and I one more thing that we share, one more common trait to add to the long list of reasons why I have earned and proudly wear the nickname "Laurie Junior."
  Is this post corny? Yeah, but honestly, which of my posts aren't? I love my mom and I love baseball. And I am very much okay with that.

On Writing

Source

I just finished reading Stephen King's On Writing. "Just," as in I put it down five minutes ago, got on the computer to write, then got distracted by Facebook (my eternal problem). But seriously, this book will likely be one of those that I carry with me always, both literally and figuratively. I read the majority of it over a two-day span while at work. The entire time I was itching to write, to test King's theories and ideas in my own way. So, here I go, off to try (once again) to take what I've learned about writing and make it part of my everyday life.
Wish me luck?

NEW YORK

I never thought I’d like New York City. I’ve always wanted to, but let’s look at the facts: I’m quiet, reserved, introverted. Both large crowds and thoughts of having to interact with huge volumes of people tend to stress me out. Traveling and being far away from home usually exhaust me. Am I sounding like a square yet? Possibly your grandmother? Yes, that’s me!

Despite my reservations, and to the great surprise of my mother, I fell in love. It’s strange that I can say that about so many vastly different people, places, and things, but for me it’s all the same. I fell in love with New York in the way that I do frequently with movies or books or ideas. I felt that yes feeling in my heart, the one on which I often rely in order to make decisions. That feeling helped me choose what college I wanted to go to. It helps me decide who I want to spend time with (or not). It decides when I actually like something and when I say I like it just to fit in with everyone else. It has helped me choose my path through life thus far, and I trust it to keep doing its job. Too corny? Yeah, probably, but I’m a cheesy person. Slightly irrelevant New York themed example: one of the main reasons I wanted to make it to the top of the Empire State Building is because two of my favorite movies happen to be An Affair to Remember and Sleepless in Seattle. Sappy music? Bring it on. Horribly unrealistic love story? I’m there, baby. I’m rambling now, and I apologize for that, but I needed to post something about my New York adventure before I forgot all that I wanted to say.

So here goes. The following is probably the best way to describe how I’m feeling right now: Five days ago I had never been further east than Reno, Nevada. Five days ago I hadn’t been on an airplane in years; hadn’t ever been in a taxi or taken the subway. Five days ago I had fewer blisters on my feet and fewer dreams in my head. I was scared of where my future was going, of how much I was allowing myself to limit my options before they even left my own head, of how I would ever be able to make my grandiose daydreams become reality. Five days ago there was one less thing on my long list of things with which I am, to borrow an infamous phrase from Twilight, irrevocably in love. I’m grateful for those five days, despite the fact that they left me so exhausted I was almost in tears.

I made a brand new start of it in ol’ New York, New York, and I’ve got nothing to do today but smile.  [Is it blasphemy to mash together lyrics from Sinatra and Simon and Garfunkel? Probably.] 

 Approximately 1/3 of my 600 pictures look like this....

 ...Or like this. View from Empire State Building

 View from the Empire State Building

 My favorite building, you already know why

My sister and I hamming it up with Lady Liberty

New York, Baby

I’m going to New York on Friday. I, a girl who has never been further East than Reno, Nevada, am getting on a plane with my family and heading to the Big Apple. Start spreading the news.

I’m at once incredibly excited and absolutely terrified. To me, New York is where the cool kids hang out. It’s the Mecca for artists and writers and creative types hiding behind varying degrees of reclusiveness. It’s the capitol of all art and writing, the hometown of my two first loves and best friends. I have always tried to hang with the cool kids. I have rarely fit in with them. I’m witty and beloved in my head; I’m awkward and shy in real life. You can see how trying to hang with those for whom “cool” comes effortlessly could be a major problem. Not that this matters much in real life, but it makes me think. I have dreams of maybe one day being an East Coast resident, an intern at one of those major publishing companies which reside in that big city full of dreamers like me. I’m afraid my visions, my delusions of grandeur, will get chewed up and spit back out by reality, the way most of my visions do. I’m afraid that these delusions will become crushed by a tidal wave of realization. I’m afraid I’ll run home with my tail between my legs and never want to try my hand at life outside of Northern California again anytime soon.

I’m too safe. I’m too afraid. I’m too easily frustrated by my own failures, my ultimately inconsequential shortcomings. I need to get off the computer. Away from the internet. I need to actually get out and do things. I need to stop sitting around feeling sorry for myself for never having done anything, for never having any proper adventures or doing anything that feels real. This changes now. Or, maybe, in the morning, as it is currently almost 10 PM and old habits die hard. Keep your eyes peeled, though, World. ‘Cause I’m a’coming.